


Dreams That Cannot Be

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings: Depression, Self-Harm, language, angst, hurt/comfort, dependency on another, attachment disorder.<br/>Summary: A future pulled from beneath his feet, a wife pulled from between his arms. Ron falls willingly, despite the pleas of those around him.</p><p>Written for hp_mentalhealthfest on Livejournal in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Dreams That Cannot Be**  
  
Sitting on the bed, gripping the edges tight with his fingers, Ron looked at the wardrobe.  
  
It was his routine. He woke up when nature beckoned. He shuffled to the bathroom and back again. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and he sat. It had been his routine for months. Ron knew every groove and crevice of the wardrobe's front -it was an antique, passed down from his wife's grandmother. Hermione had loved it and hence Ron stared at it.  
  
It wasn't merely his wife's attachment that saw him staring at the old wood. What was concealed inside held his attention more than anything. Their clothes hung side by side, surely musty with dust by that point, but Ron couldn't let the imagery go. Her brighter robes rubbed up against his darker ones, intimately pressed together in the confined space. They shared the dust between them, collecting newer dust together; growing old together.  
  
Ron didn't open the wardrobe to confront the fact that his clothes could do what he and his wife could not.  
  
Her death got in the way of their ageing; of their intimacy. Her absence in his life made it quieter than he could bear, and without the instruction that he had grown used to taking.  
  
A shiver passed down Ron's neck and he jerked his head with a grunt.  
  
His daughter could plead with him all she liked, but he would not clear the wardrobe out. If Hermione's clothes could be intimate with his, grow old with his and more, then they could also control them, whilst he failed to cope without.  
  


* * *

  
  
Scorpius Malfoy was late. That was a disaster, not because Malfoys were _never_ late, but because he really didn't want to let Hugo Weasley down. He had been late for their last dinner, too, and the argument which followed still rang in his ears.  
  
That argument had been the impetus for the end of their relationship, three months before. He hadn't heard from Hugo since, and as he belted around a corner, heading for the tiny little Italian restaurant, Scorpius didn't understand why Hugo would have waited to contact him.  
  
 _If he wants you back, what are you going to do?_  
  
Scorpius was panting by the time he made it to the front door, and the maître d' threw him a filthy look as he barged through the door, sprinkling rain onto the welcome mat.  
  
“I'm meeting a friend, Mr Weasley, is he here yet?”  
  
“Certainly. This way please, sir.”  
  
Cursing the fact that Hugo's watch had always been set five minutes early, Scorpius shrugged out of his Muggle coat and followed the man, trying not to wince as his damp boots squelched on the plush carpet of the restaurant floor.  
  
“Thought you'd stood me up again.” Hugo half-rose from his seat.  
  
Scorpius wasn't about to deny the fact that in the gentle candlelight, Hugo's thick, waving hair looked as lush as it ever had. He handed his coat to the waiter, who had appeared by his side, and slid into his seat, looking demurely down at his lap.   
  
“Sorry I'm late.”  
“You're always late,” Hugo dismissed with a laugh. “That was the first thing I learnt about you.”  
“No, the first thing you learnt about me is that I'm not your typical Malfoy.” Scorpius reached for the waiting wine bottle and poured himself a glass.  
“Well yeah, but that was pretty obvious when you didn't call me scum as you tried to flush my head down the bog.”  
“My dad never did that to your dad.” Scorpius playfully narrowed his eyes, topping Hugo's glass up. “Or at least, you can't prove it if he did.”  
  
Hugo hummed his agreement and picked up the glass, swilling the rich red liquid around in the base, keeping his eyes to it.  
  
“So come on then,” Scorpius let himself relax into his chair. “Why am I here, Hugo?”  
“Well... funny you should mention my dad...” Hugo let out a little puff of air which attempted to be a laugh, but was actually anxiety. “I need a favour.”  
“What kind of favour?” Scorpius frowned.  
“Well... you know how when my mum died... my dad didn't seem to really take it in?”  
“I do.” Scorpius answered softly.  
  
His relationship with the man sitting opposite him had come about as a direct result of the woman's death; he failed to see how he could forget the staunchness of Ronald Weasley in the days afterwards. Hugo had fallen to pieces, and Scorpius had picked them up and glued them back together.  
  
 _Only to break them again a few months later..._ Scorpius ignored his mind's wry addition to his thoughts and took a mouthful of wine.  
  
“I think... I think he needs help.”  
  
Scorpius waited for the nineteen-year-old to continue.  
  
“He doesn't do anything unless we tell him.” Hugo's voice took on a slightly desperate edge. “He just sits all day, undressed, staring at shit that was Mum's. I don't know what to do with him.”  
“Does he know that what he's doing isn't... what he normally does?”  
“I don't think he knows which way is up.” Hugo finally looked up and Scorpius was frightened to see damp blue eyes; they were eyes which he knew to be a mirror image of Ronald Weasley's.  
“Don't get upset,” Scorpius said automatically. “I'll help you get the Healers involved... I mean, it shouldn't be a problem, I work at the hospital.”  
  
Hugo simply shook his head and looked away, his lips hooked possessively over the rim of his glass as he constantly sipped at his wine.  
  
“Then what do you want me to do?” Scorpius frowned.  
  
He had assumed that Hugo would want him to use his connections in the hospital to get his father the help he needed -after all, he _was_ a trainee Healer in the psychiatric wards.  
  
“He wouldn't go,” Hugo said pointedly. “Rose tried to get him to go for a walk with her the other day, and he went mental... he nearly lashed out at her.”  
“Did he react when Rose backed away from him? Did she show her fear?”  
“She said he just kind of went blank and looked at her funny. I think... I think she reminds him of Mum.”  
“They always did look alike,” Scorpius remembered unhelpfully. “What else does he do?”  
  
Hugo opened his mouth to answer, but at that precise moment their starters arrived, and he chose to wait until their server had disappeared again before he came forth with the information.  
  
“Sits staring at stuff, hasn't washed or shaved in... fuck, months, actually. He doesn't talk, he's just gone completely into himself.”  
“What about his friends?” Scorpius began to mentally tick boxes in his mind.  
“Uncle Harry's tried, but he can't get anywhere. Dad just sits in silence when he's round and it's as if... I dunno. It's like he's fucking waiting for someone to tell him that it's okay to talk, or what to say.”  
“Have you told him?” Scorpius frowned.  
“What to say? No!”  
“I mean have you told him that it's _okay_ to talk about it?”  
  
Hugo blushed an ugly red and looked down at his untouched food. “We used to, at first. But he never listened and I don't think he even hears when we say stuff these days...”  
“Why haven't you asked for help sooner?”  
“Because I don't want to... scare him.” Hugo snatched his napkin from the table. “Loud noises startle him and Rose had to take Crookshanks home with her because Dad kept forgetting to feed him and then throwing stuff at him when he made a sudden noise.”  
  
  
“Hugo, I can only tell you what you already know.” Scorpius picked up his fork and dug it into his mushrooms. “By the way, thanks for ordering this.” He waved one in the air. “But your dad needs professional help...”  
“They'll just drag him into hospital and he'll get even worse,” Hugo moaned around a mouthful of food. “You don't know what he's like... he always said that if he ever went mad he'd want Mum to curse him dead before she put him in medical care. He made her promise.”  
“Did he make you promise?”  
“Never talked to me about it.”  
  
Scorpius said nothing and began to eat his way through his food. The texture was heaven on his tongue and the subtle garlic was warming, but the conversation had been too heavy for him to truly enjoy his dinner. The thought of a great wizard, as he knew Mr Weasley -Hugo's Auror father- to be, reduced to the misery Hugo was describing, turned his stomach.  
  
He couldn't help but think of his own father in turn, who had been through persecution after the war alongside his grandfather, and still stood strong and firm, running the family estates -or more accurately, what was _left_ of the estates.  
  
 _Your family is fucked up in its own little way..._  
  
It was as much the truth as the sky being blue, Scorpius knew. His family had never reconciled to his choice of career, and instead of being vocal about their disapproval, they simply chose to say nothing except sly digs when they found the opportune moment. It riled him, and they knew it, but crossed words had not been exchanged since his acceptance into the programme. For Scorpius, there had been no other choice. He was not his father; he liked people, and he liked understanding them. He liked helping them. Good marks and a sense of humour had won him his spot on the training programme, and he worked hard to keep it.  
  
Despite all of his attributes, however, he still didn't quite understand what Hugo was asking of him.  
  
“I need you to come and talk to him.” Hugo seemed to read his mind. “Maybe you can help him make sense of a few things... or at least get him to see that he's unwell.”  
“If he doesn't want to see that, then he won't,” Scorpius said flatly. “And as you won't let him go to the hospital, where they will force him to see it, then I really think you're-”  
“I'm not holding him back.” Hugo's fork hit the table with a clunk. “I'm doing what he wants!”  
  
They stared at one another over their food.  
  
“You're the first person to know that what we want sometimes isn't what's best for us,” Scorpius whispered.  
“And you should know that the things our family want for us aren't any good either,” Hugo retorted.  
“Ouch.” Scorpius reached up to rub his chest. “I forgot, never get into an argument with someone who knows where to cut you deepest.”  
“Well it's the truth,” Hugo shrugged, pushing his plate away. “I don't want this.”  
“Eat it,” Scorpius growled. “I don't want to be counselling you for an eating disorder as well.”  
“Dad doesn't eat,” Hugo said sadly. “And you remember how much he loves food, right?”  
“Not even if it's made for him?”  
“Well, actually -yeah. Say if I'm round and I make him a sandwich and actually put the plate in his hand, then he'll eat. But getting up and fending for himself... it's like he's lost all sense of survival.”  
“That can happen... with grief.” Scorpius made an apologetic face and laid down his own fork.  
  
“I just think that if he could talk to someone... who isn't going to cart him off and tie him down and force feed him Merlin knows what... it would help him. Will you help me, Scorpius? You're the only person that I trust to...”  
  
Hugo didn't need to finish his sentence; Scorpius knew that the order of the day was discretion. Auror Weasley had been in the limelight throughout his career, a fantastic Auror with a string of achievements, and had been until the very day his world had fallen apart with his wife's death. The papers were lurking for any shred of gossip.  
  
 _Your ability to keep your mouth shut is getting you employed..._  
  
“When do you want me to come round?”  
“I need to talk to Rose. She's so protective of him. I wanted to have you on board before I put it to her... she seems to think that he just needs a good cry and then he'll be right again.”  
“I don't think your dad is going to be right for quite a while.” Scorpius looked down at the tablecloth.  
“You don't have to sugar coat it for me,” Hugo answered, too coldly for his usual warmth. “I already know.”  
  
Scorpius had to stop himself for reaching across the table and picking up the younger boy's hand.  
  
 _Like he needs any more complication in his life._  
  


* * *

  
  
“No, Dad, don't use that one.”  
  
Ron stopped as the tea towel was snatched from his fingers, and his daughter used magic to banish it to the washing hamper in the small room just off the kitchen. She pushed another into his hand and stared at him expectantly.  
  
Slowly, Ron closed his fingers around the rough cotton fabric and looked down at it. It was cleaner than the last. He supposed that was why she had taken it from him.  
  
“You'd just have made them all dirty again.” She gestured to the draining board, where she had set him the task of drying the utensils that she had used to prepare their dinner.  
  
Ron didn't answer as he reached for the spatula poking out of the knife and fork holder. He dried it thoroughly before setting it down on the table. He noticed Rose's dark look and he lifted his gaze to meet it.  
  
“Daddy, you know where that lives,” she sighed, reaching for it. “Don't just leave it there.”  
  
Ron licked at his lower lip and felt his chest tighten. Rose was right. He did know where the spatula lived, but simply standing was taking his energy away from him. To get to the drawer across the kitchen seemed like a mammoth task, but the look of anger in her eyes startled him. It reminded him of Hermione.  
  
Quickly he flung his hand out for the spatula and knocked it out of his daughter's grip, catching it before it landed on the floor. Forcing his legs to move, he padded across the tiles and pulled out the drawer, placing the utensil flat on the bottom and closing it. His force was too strong and the wood collided with a bang, which made him jump, and he heard Rose's tut from behind him.  
  
“Not so loud, Dad, you'll scare the gnomes away.”  
“I'm trying.”  
  
His speech seemed to surprise her, and when Ron turned away from the wall, she was staring at him with pink splotches over her freckled cheeks.  
  
“Daddy?”  
“Please don't call me that, Rosie.”  
“When are we going to stop pretending that you're alright?”  
  
Ron didn't answer her, but looked down at his feet. His toenails were too long and in desperate need of a cut, to the point where he was stabbing himself with their sharpness in the middle of the night and finding streaks of blood on the bedsheets come the morning. Without the energy to bend and tend to them, they had grown too long, and they fascinated him for a while, as he wondered quite how long they could actually grow.  
  
“I think I'm going to make you an appointment with-”  
“Rose, I think it's time you went home.”  
  
It was easy, Ron found, when he tried to slip back into his old paternal role. Rose had always listened to him, cherished him and hung off his every opinion. Hugo was the same. He had barely had to scold, except for Rose's forthrightness and Hugo's inclination to explore in mud and up trees. It was easy to turn on the discontent to his daughter, who stood before him at twenty-one, feminine and beautiful.  
  
 _Like Hermione was._  
  
“Go.” Ron felt his lips begin to tremble as he spoke. “Rosie, get out. Please.”  
“Dad, what's wrong?”  
“Get out,” he snapped, throwing himself past her to the open-arched doorway. “Get out. Now.”  
“Daddy-”  
“DON'T CALL ME THAT!”  
  
His bellow was coarse and horrific, bounding through the once-peaceful hallways of their house. Rose seemed to shrink in front of him and her eyes overflowed. Ron felt guilty, but he didn't know how to take the words back, and as his only daughter fled past him, and the front door slammed after her, a thick fog of anger swamped him.  
  
It wasn't his children's fault that he had become so low as to be physically and mentally incapacitated. Nothing felt easy; nothing had the flow of when his wife was alive. He was reaching for the draining board before he knew it, picking up an object he had yet to dry. The blade dug into the palm of his hand as his fingers closed around it. He was walking, Ron realised, as his feet caught on the carpet and threatened to send him sprawling on his face. With each further step that he took, he felt numbness descending around his head and neck, supporting it and trapping him within. His vision blurred as he stumbled into their bedroom and locked the door behind him.  
  
The knife clattered to the floor as he crawled onto the bed. The sheets were too clean; Rose had insisted on changing them that afternoon. They no longer smelt of perfume and feminine musk, but then they hadn't smelt that way for months. Ron had never known how much he appreciated that smell, the beautiful waft of his wife as she rolled over in the middle of a warm night, or snuggled close to him on a cold one.  
  
“Why aren't you here?” he whispered, gripping tightly onto the clean duvet and marring the white cotton with the blood from his palm. “Why aren't you helping me any more?”  
  
Sucking in a deep breath and finding it brought him nothing but pain, Ron pressed his face into his pillow and let out a silent scream into the filling, allowing the soft padding to fill his mouth, to gag him, and his grief.  
  


* * *

  
  
Scorpius had one foot poised over the bath, ready to sink into the perfumed water, when he heard the desperate thudding on the front door to his flat. His entire body ached after fighting for the best part of the day with a patient who really and truly didn't want to be constrained to the limits of his bed. His brain felt like a wrung sponge, mostly due to the fact that, once they had restrained the man, his thoughts had turned dark and he had spoken them aloud.  
  
It made Scorpius ache inside to hear people speak in that manner.  
  
The thudding kept up in an uneven rhythm, and he heard the shout of his name. For the sake of his neighbours, Scorpius threw a towel around his waist and secured it tightly before stepping out into the living room and crossing it.  
  
His flat was small, but it was his kingdom, and he loved the peace. His father had, of course, turned his nose up at it, and his mother had fussed over the state of the carpet, but in reality that only made Scorpius favour the poky little kitchen and slightly grimy bathroom all the more. Fiddling with the few Muggle latches he had for no real reason, considering he lived in a magical area, Scorpius cracked the door open an inch and peered onto the landing.  
  
“Let us in,” Hugo implored him with wide, desperate eyes.  
  
Well aware of the fact that he was only dressed in a towel in front of an ex-boyfriend, Scorpius stepped aside and protectively covered his chest with crossed arms. Hugo traipsed into his flat, his cloak dripping rain onto the carpet, and, to Scorpius' surprise, with him was the Potter who had been in Scorpius' own year at school.  
  
“Al, long time no see.”  
“We don't have time for this,” Hugo moaned.  
“What's the matter?” Scorpius looked between them.  
  
Hugo opened his mouth, but as he tried to speak his emotions got the better of him, and he turned away, covering his face with his hand. He was trembling.  
  
“Uncle Ron won't come out of his room, he's been in there for three days and they won't... they don't want to blast the door down, because he won't trust them any more if they use magic against him.”  
“What chased him in there in the first place?”  
“He and Rose had an argument... he just flipped, apparently.”  
“And what do you want me to do?” Scorpius shifted his weight uncomfortably between his feet. He glanced at the clock -it was nearly midnight, and he had to be up for a shift at five.  
  
“Just see if you can talk any sense into him through the door,” Al reasoned. “You've got more chance than the rest of us, you know the right things to say to someone who's feeling like he is, right?”  
“Well, yeah, but I'm not the be all and end all, he'd be better off with a fully qualified Heal-”  
“Will you just do it?” Hugo threw over his shoulder. “Please?”  
  
Scorpius licked his lips and strode to the bedroom, wondering how it was that it had got to the point where he could no longer refuse Hugo Weasley anything.  
  
***  
“It's no good, he's not having it. You said the wrong thing by telling him I was a Healer,” Scorpius shook his head, fighting off the yawn in his throat. “I think we need to either blast the door down or get someone more adult.”  
“We _are_ adults now,” Rose whispered. “Scorpius, we're not kids any more, creeping around the castle at night.”  
  
Her scold was like a slap around the face, Scorpius found. He, of all of them, had known what it was like to grow up too quickly, with his grandfather and father mostly condemned, the family name mud and his own relatives' apparent disregard for him.  
  
“Get out of the way.”  
  
A dark look came over Rose's face as she stared at the door.  
  
“Rosie?” Hugo's voice suddenly came over apprehensive. “Rose, what are you going to do?”  
  
One shapely, freckled arm lifted and rapped hard knuckles against the wood; when the girl next to him spoke, however, she did not sound like Rose -she sounded for all the world like her dead mother.  
  
“Ron, what on earth are you doing in there? Get out here, now.”  
  
Hugo blanched white and wobbled where he stood. His mouth fell open in horror as he stared at his sister, and what she had done. However appalled he was by her deceit, it worked; there came loud shuffling from within the room, and within seconds, the door had been flung open, and the scent of stale air and something Scorpius couldn't place wafted on the breeze.  
  
“Hermione, I've missed you so-”  
  
Ron's face fell as he saw the small crowd on the landing. It took a further few seconds for the truth to register in his mind, and then darkness flashed in his eyes. Scorpius' immediate reaction was to take a step back, but a firm hand landed between his shoulder blades and he was shoved towards the doorway.  
  
“Get out of here, Malfoy scum,” Ron snarled, his eyes narrowing to the point of malice. “What's he doing in my house?”  
“He thinks you're your dad,” Hugo whispered in Scorpius' ear, in a breath that was hot and far, far too intimate.  
“I'm Scorpius,” he blundered immediately. “Not Draco. Scorpius.”  
“He's here to see you, Dad,” Hugo croaked. “Will you let him talk to you?”  
“I can help you.” Scorpius took a step forward of his own volition and crossed the threshold to the bedroom. He could at once see that the scene was something that would break hearts, should the man's children see it.  
  
“You two go downstairs,” he said over his shoulder, not stopping to look at them as he closed the door with a snap. “Would you like me to lock that?” he asked Ron politely, who stood staring at him.  
  
There was a curt nod, and Scorpius did as he was asked. As he turned, he took stock of the room as a whole. Ron crawled back onto the bed and drew his knees up to his chest. His sapphire eyes were glued to Scorpius where he stood.  
  
“Mr Weasley, can I open the window?” Scorpius glanced at it. “I think some fresh air would help you.”  
“Okay.”  
  
Crossing to the old sash, Scorpius tugged it all the way down and took a deep lungful of the fresh air before turning back to the stinking room. It was a mess. The bed was crumpled and splotched with crimson. Ron himself was also dirty, with bloodstains on his arms which had transferred to his chest. His hair was full of grease and thick stubble hid his jawline and chin from view. His eyes looked painfully red.  
  
Taking a careful step closer, Scorpius noticed the knife on the bedside table.  
  
“Mr Weasley, I need to bathe your arms,” Scorpius said quietly. “Will you let me do that?”  
  
Sapphire eyes looked down at the bloodied mess and then, much to Scorpius' surprise, Ron held one of his arms aloft.  
  
“Do they hurt?” Scorpius peered at the cuts, some of which were deep, and others shallow; all looked painful.  
  
Ron simply shrugged and didn't answer. Scorpius didn't press, but turned for the open archway leading off the bedroom. There he found a plain but functional en suite bathroom, and he quickly transfigured a toothbrush into a bowl. He filled it with lukewarm water and stared around, not wanting to pry.  
  
“They're in that cupboard there,” Ron's voice startled him, and Scorpius jumped, sloshing some of the water over the rim of the bowl. “Cotton wool... and some potion... Hermione always used to put that on cuts.”  
“Mr Weasley." Scorpius set the bowl down in the sink and bent to retrieve the items. “If you know this, why haven't you cleaned yourself?”  
  
When Ron didn't answer, Scorpius straightened up and turned around, but the man was no longer there. Picking up the bowl again he made his way back into the bedroom and found Ron in his original position, curled into an upright ball on his bed. Perching on the edge, Scorpius positioned the bowl in his lap and soaked the first pad in the water.  
  
Ron's wrist came to him without protest, and soon Scorpius was swiping away the dried blood, methodically cleaning the cuts and assessing them for infection. When the entire arm was clean, he poured some of the potion onto another pad and began to soothe it over the lashes. Ron hissed several times but made no further noise, and handed the other arm over just as quietly when Scorpius gestured to it.  
  
When it too was clean, Scorpius took the liberty of wetting a few more pads and beginning to clean the man's torso with it. He gently circled pale pink nipples. Ron's torso was smeared with blood from where he had folded his arms protectively over his chest.  
  
For a man approaching fifty, Scorpius couldn't help but appreciate the fact that Ronald Weasley still had tone to his chest and upper arms. They were freckled and lightly haired. His skin was in good condition. Swirling another damp pad down to clean the man's belly, Scorpius blushed. It felt far too intimate an action for a stranger to carry out -but there was no way that he could have let Rose or Hugo see their father in such a state.  
  
They both idolised him; the man on the bed was not the father they knew, but an impostor, and Scorpius knew what it was to be scared and frightened by one's own father. He wanted to spare them the pain.  
  
“I think that's you clean,” he said softly, chucking the pad he held into the bowl of bloody water. “Unless you've hurt yourself anywhere else?”  
  
Ron said nothing, he simply stared.  
  
“Mr Weasley, tell me -have you hurt yourself anywhere else?”  
“No,” he croaked.  
“Promise?”  
“I promise.” Ron nodded solemnly, his eyes widening, as if the world hung off his vow.  
“Good.” Scorpius forced himself to smile. “Can I ask you something, Mr Weasley?”  
“Ron,” the redhead corrected in a low voice.  
“Ron.” Scorpius reached out and set the bowl down on the bedside table, next to the knife. “Why did you hurt yourself like that?”  
“I don't know.”  
  
The answer was automatic and lifeless. Ron looked hopeless as he sat there with his shoulders slumped, his skin slightly glistening where the healing salve was still sinking through the damaged flesh.  
  
“Ron.” Scorpius reached slowly for his hand, praying that he wasn't overstepping the mark. “Ron, I think that... maybe... you should come with me to the hospital.”  
  
Cursing himself, Scorpius let his hand fly as it was thrown away from Ron's grip. Before then it had been pleasant, sharing body heat with the man, trying to comfort him with just touch.  
  
“N-No,” Ron stammered. “You can't make me.”  
  
 _I could._  
  
“Please don't make me.”  
  
Scorpius could do nothing as he watched the grown man in front of him fall apart. Ron's shoulders began to tremble before they started to heave. The man's chest bounced. As he struggled to take in air, he choked making the most awful gagging noise.  
  
The panic attack was frighteningly sudden and consumed the wizard, whose face screwed up as though he was fighting a titanic battle simply to breathe. Scorpius reached forward and took him by the shoulders, pressing in with his fingertips to alert Ron to his presence.  
  
“Stop it.” He tried to soothe, holding Ron's slight frame in place. “Breathe, Mr Weasley... just breathe for me...”  
“Why?” The question was spat. “She would have looked after me, and she's not here. I want her _back!_ ”  
“She can't come back.” Scorpius' stomach turned as he spoke the words.  
  
Ron stilled in his hands and his eyes, which had been tightly clenched shut, opened with graceful ease.  
  
“Then I don't want to be here,” he said simply, and slumped back against the headboard of the bed.  
  


* * *

  
  
“There you go.”  
  
Ron looked up at the blond and gave a gentle nod of thanks for the drink. He didn't see why Scorpius came to sit with him as often as he did. They never talked about anything, nor could Ron ever answer the questions that Scorpius asked him. When he tried, his mouth dried up and his throat thickened. The boy never pressed for answers, however, and it confused Ron.  
  
Every day he waited for the words: “I'm going to take you to the hospital now.”  
  
Ron dreaded them. They sparked fear like fire in his veins, which torched everything until he could see only white walls and sympathetic healers, and those who would make him look within himself. He would never admit aloud that he was terrified to do so.  
  
“It's nearly dinner time.” Scorpius glanced at the clock. “Should I make you tea?”  
“No.” Ron shook his head. His bum was sore from sitting all day. “I'll do it.”  
“Okay.” The blond sent him a smile. “I'll read the paper then, shall I?”  
“If you want,” Ron answered morosely and struggled to his feet.  
  
He swayed slightly and reached out to steady himself on the arm of the chair. He didn't look for them, but he felt icy grey eyes fixate on him, making sure that he was safe. Once the room had stopped spinning, Ron made his way to the kitchen, feeling along the walls until he knew where he was. He leant over the sink and stared out of the back window. The garden had grown wild, and Hermione would have been disgusted with him.  
  
His stomach clenched and Ron didn't know why he was bothering to think about food when he knew it would go uneaten. However, the boy in his sitting room had made him dinner for the last three days out of five; he felt, for some reason, like he owed him something back, even though he had never asked to be waited on hand and foot.  
  
Staring at the cupboards, however, Ron found himself at a wall. He had no idea what to make. He hadn't properly cooked alone in months.  
  
“What do you want to eat?” he called out numbly, not bothering to move from his position.  
  
There were muffled footsteps and then Scorpius was there in the kitchen. “What do you want to make?”  
  
Ron shook his head.  
  
“A sandwich would be fine.”  
“For dinner?” Ron frowned, turning to look at him. “Don't you want something more?”  
“I had a big lunch.” Scorpius smiled again.  
  
Ron didn't know whether to find his serene nature calming or infuriating. Either way, he pulled a bagged loaf of bread towards him over the counter and tried to untie the knot.  
  
 _Hugo... Hugo always does this..._  
  
Hissing, Ron finally managed to work free the knot and reached for the bread inside. It was soft against his fingers; he didn't remember it being bought.  
  
“What do you want in it?”  
“Whatever you want to put in it.”  
  
Ron swallowed, with the distinct impression that he was under a test. He shuffled to the Muggle fridge that his wife had always insisted that they keep running, and looked inside. Selecting some cuts of meat and a jar of mayonnaise, Ron turned back to the worktop. Messily he began to place the meat on one half of the bread, slathering the other with the pale sauce. He squashed them together and stared at it. It looked awful.  
  
He pulled a plate from the drying rack and dumped the sandwich on it. He stared at it and it made him feel sick.  
  
“Ron?” Scorpius asked.  
  
Ron hadn't realised he was still there. He jumped, looking down at the plate in his hand.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “It's really shit.”  
“No, it's fine-” Scorpius stepped forward.  
  
Ron felt the plate slide from his fingertips. He did the only thing that seemed plausible. Encouraged by the embarrassment and anger creeping up through his veins, he tilted his wrist and flung the plate, sandwich and all, at the wall, where it landed with a loud crack and fell to the tiles below. The tinkling sound was satisfying as the two halves then shattered on the floor. The sandwich lay stabbed with shards of china.  
  
And then, as quick as it had come, the anger vanished. Ron swayed on his feet and staggered backwards. Despair lunged forwards, grabbing him by the throat and causing his face to burn up. He was mortified.  
  
“What happened to me?” he wailed at the room, hating how desperate he sounded. “Why can't I do anything right?”  
“Come and sit down with me.” Scorpius' soothing voice washed over him. “Please.”  
“No. I can't... I'll... fuck it up.” Ron wildly shook his head.  
  
He saw the tears fly through the air, and only then realised that he was crying.  
  
“I used to be a man who could do anything,” he choked. “I-I could make a f-fucking s-sandwich... and now...”  
  
Ron stared wildly at Scorpius, who looked back, one hand outstretched out him. The fingers were slim and delicate, almost beautiful.  
  
“What happened to me?” Ron breathed again, slumping back against the worktop, ignoring the pain it caused in his lower back to do so.  
“Something very unfair.” Scorpius shook his head apologetically.  
“Why can't I handle it better?” Ron whispered.  
“I can't answer that for you.” Scorpius' fingers finally closed over Ron's shoulder.  
  
Ron said nothing after that. His energy was gone, and he couldn't tear his eyes from the ruined sandwich on the floor.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Dad, can you pass the salt please?”  
  
Scorpius wondered if he would ever cease to gain satisfaction from making his father wince by calling him _Dad._ He knew he was petty, but after twenty-one years of failed expectations and pointless arguments, he was beyond paying attention to it. He didn't even care who was winning in their little game of running the other into the ground, as long as he enjoyed himself before his face hit the dirt.  
  
He forced a smile as the little glass pot was shoved right along the over-polished surface of his parents' dining table.  
  
“Thank you,” he said sweetly, picking it up and sprinkling it over his food.  
“So, how's work?”  
“Good.” Scorpius turned to his mother, and for her he had a genuine smile. “I think I'll do well in my end of year exams... so... fingers crossed.”  
“And if you don't?” his father asked tensely.  
“Then I'll re-sit them and carry on as I am.” Scorpius shrugged. “Have I ever failed a test yet?”  
“Your Apparition exam.”  
“The examiner was beautiful. How was I supposed to concentrate?”  
“Your first year flying exam.”  
“Well, the broom was too big for me, and you knew that because you said I'd grow into it.”  
“Your History of Magic OWL.”  
  
Scorpius paused. He didn't think parents would appreciate the excuse of 'got pissed the night before' as a reason for failing to attain that particular qualification. He looked down at his plate instead.  
  
“Has the child with an answer for everything finally run out?” one of the portraits on the wall asked.  
“Shut up,” Scorpius grumbled to his roast lamb.  
  
They settled into a dry silence, and when, five desperately dull minutes later, a silver dog burst through the wall, Scorpius sat up in his chair as though Father Christmas himself had entered.  
  
 _'Scorpius -When you get a moment, could you come round?'_  
  
His heart thrummed to an instant buzz in his chest and Scorpius dropped his fork. He reached for his napkin to wipe his lips and looked apologetically at his mother. “Mum, I'm really sorry but that's someone I'm helping out at work... he's quite unstable. I'm getting extra marks for taking his care on, see...” he lied.  
  
He was already on his feet without his parents' permission. They were both staring at him with wide eyes.  
  
“But we're eating!”  
  
 _And a man could be lying in a pool of his own blood and you'd still only care if the rosemary potatoes got cold..._  
  
Scorpius bit back his nasty retort and took a deep breath. “Mum, this is important.”  
“I hope this 'person' is a female.” His father looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Unlike the last person you 'helped'.”  
“It's none of your business, but if you must know, it's a he, and there's nothing romantic. He's much older than me. Your age, in fact.”  
  
Already on his way to the door, Scorpius thought he heard a mutter which sounded suspiciously like 'that hasn't stopped you before'.  
  
Anger bubbling in his belly, he headed for the nearest private fireplace away from the dining room and closed the door behind him. In the silence of one of the drawing rooms, he forced himself to suck in several deep breaths to chase away his anger, and then scooped up a handful of Floo powder.  
  
“It'd serve you right if I did.” Scorpius conjured flames in the grate and then cast in the green dust.  
  
The squeeze of the Floo network pressured his already painful guts, and when his feet landed at the other end, he was glad, fearing that the superbly roasted lamb might have been about to make a reappearance. Blinking his way out of the grate and stamping the soot from his boots on the hearth, Scorpius glanced around. His jaw nearly hit his knees.  
  
In the middle of his living room, as bold as brass, Ronald Weasley stood completely naked; a pair of pyjama bottoms clasped in each hand. He looked agitated and flushed in the face, looking between his two fists as though they presented him with dilemma. Scorpius cleared his throat to announce his presence, because the roaring of the flames didn't appear to have been enough.  
  
“Ron?” he queried, taking a step forward.  
  
 _Don't look._  
  
It was hard _not_ to look, unfortunately for Scorpius. The redhead had aged extremely well; keeping the tone in his stomach and arms, though the skin was clearly looser than it had been in his youth. His body hair still flamed red and his cock, more than adequately proportioned even dormant, hung thick on top of his testicles. Scorpius felt his mouth parch.  
  
“Ron?” he dragged his eyes up.  
“She liked these,” Ron muttered, somewhat wildly, lifting his right hand. “They're smooth, see.”  
“They are,” Scorpius agreed.  
“But I've always liked these ones,” he shook the checked, baggy pair. He looked expectantly up at Scorpius. “Which should I put on?”  
  
Scorpius was embarrassed by the question, that a grown man could not decide which pair of pyjamas he should put on to wear to bed that evening.  
  
“Which ones?” Ron asked, his voice slightly stronger.  
“I...” Scorpius trailed off and cleared his throat to start again. “I can't decide. Pick the ones you want to wear.”  
“But, she liked these ones and I like these.”  
“Is Hermione here?” Scorpius asked softly.  
“No.” Ron's voice wobbled.  
  
“Then I think you have your answer, Ron.”  
  
Ron stared at him with dead eyes, and Scorpius feared that he might have ruined all the good work that had been done. Ron's thin body turned away, and then he lifted one leg and slid it into the trousers which he himself liked.  
  
Scorpius looked at the wall to keep his eyes from stalking the curve of the wizard's buttocks as they shifted in front of him.  
  
“You must think I'm pathetic. I'm a grown man.”  
“A grown man who has lost the love of his life,” Scorpius pointed out awkwardly.  
  
Nausea swamped Scorpius when he realised that, for all Ron's pain, he was still jealous of the fact that the man had loved and been loved in return.  
  


* * *

  
  
Three hours later, Scorpius shifted in his seat and folded up the paper. Ron could see that he had finally finished the crossword.  
  
“Hermione used to do the crossword,” Ron said quietly.  
“I'm sorry -I should have asked your permission.” Scorpius looked up at him, worried.  
“It's fine,” Ron said dully. “She's not here to do it any more, is she?”  
“No, she's not.”  
  
Ron licked his lips. “I miss her.”  
“I know you do. Rose and Hugo miss her too. They miss you.”  
“But I'm not gone.” Ron frowned.  
“You're not yourself.”  
  
Ron knew that he could have been offended by the blond's comment, but there was little point when he knew it to be the truth. Everyone had told him he was unlike his usual self.  
  
“No.”  
“Why is that?” Scorpius asked softly. “Do you mind telling me?”  
“I don't know what to tell you.” Ron shrugged as he spoke, drawing his legs up onto the sofa with him. He put one hand down to stroke over his foot. The nails were no longer too long -Scorpius had helped him to clip them the day before.  
  
The blond had helped him with so many things, Ron realised, that he had quickly grown used to his presence. They moved around one another well, and somehow, the younger wizard always knew what to say -how to handle him, even in a bad mood. Ron didn't understand how he could be so understanding, and yet so kind.  
  
“What do you do for a living, Scorpius?”  
“I'm a trainee psychiatric Healer at St. Mungo's,” the man answered.  
  
His honesty tightened Ron's chest, but he realised he had actually known the fact. Hugo had announced him as a doctor, when he shouted through the door, before Rose had tricked him into believing his wife stood on the landing, waiting for him.  
  
The memory of the hope which had flared through Ron at her pitch-perfect imitation brought tears to his eyes, sitting there in the warm living room.  
  
“So that's how you always know what to say,” Ron whispered, reaching up and brushing at the moisture.  
“Not always.” Scorpius looked uncomfortable. “D'you want a tissue?”  
“No... just thinking about Rose... and what she did.”  
“How much did it hurt, when you realised that Hermione wasn't there?”  
  
Ron paused for a moment, trying to find the words with which to properly describe the shattered feeling of his lungs and heart.   
  
“Dead,” he breathed, staring at the fire. “Like I was dying, but in the most... violent, horrible way I could think of. Dramatic, isn't it?”  
“A little bit.” Scorpius smiled at him. “But sometimes, feelings are dramatic, Ron.”  
  
Ron's feelings had never been dramatic; Hermione had often implied that he didn't have any. He had the feelings she deemed were suitable, most of the time, and buried those which she despised, such as his anger, and his jealousy.  
  
They were traits that Ron had been born with: wild fire that easily ate through muscle and bone to consume him -but he had tamed them, for her. Only since her death had he allowed them to trickle back, filling him up and bursting out at inopportune moments and people; he was ashamed, because _she_ would have been ashamed.  
  
“If I could give you anything at the moment,” Scorpius leant forward in his chair to ask, “what would you ask me for, Ron?”  
“My wife back,” Ron gave him the most obvious answer.  
“Why?”  
“So she can make everything right again.” It was another reply which he thought should have been obvious.  
“In what way?”  
“She can decide.” Ron frowned again.  
“Decide what?”  
  
Ron huffed, deciding that the boy was being deliberately obtuse. “Things. Like what to have for dinner, what I should wear, what we should do at the weekend.”  
  
Scorpius remained silent, though on his face something had changed. His eyes had narrowed.  
  
“Ron... are you saying that you would like your wife back so that she can run your life?”  
“Of course not,” Ron breathed.  
“Did she control you? Make every decision?”  
  
“No,” Ron cried anxiously, jumping up off the sofa and storming to the kitchen.  
  
Scorpius didn't immediately follow, but as Ron didn't hear the door close, he knew the blond was still there. Pressing his hands onto the cool rim of the sink, Ron looked out of the back window. The garden was drenched in darkness, hiding his wife's haven from view. Ron was glad.  
  
“I want you to be honest with me,” Scorpius' voice called to him softly. Ron saw him leaning on the door frame by his reflection in the window. “Do you promise me to be honest?”  
  
Ron wanted to answer that that depended on what the question was, but something in Scorpius' tone made him nod, silently agreeing to something which might hurt him.  
  
“When did you give up fighting? When did you decide to let her make your decisions, Ron?”  
  
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Ron coughed slightly and looked down at the stainless steel sink. It was battered and scratched after nearly thirty years of hard use in their house. They had only ever owned one. Their children had taken impromptu baths in the basin, when they had been too mucky to make the bathroom. The dog, too, had taken a dip with a view. Ron's heart gave a throb at the thought of the collie which had passed away two years before Hermione, from simple old age -he had truly loved that dog. They had never bought another because he couldn't face replacing him.  
  
“When the kids were born,” he whispered, not really knowing that he was speaking. “You don't know what we were like back then. We fought all the time. We nearly broke up so many times that my brothers started taking bets on how long it would last... and then, she got pregnant with Rosie, and things got better. We were so in love with each other, and Rose... two years passed, and Hugo was born...”  
  
He trailed off, trying to think.  
  
“But when he was two, the arguments got bad again. I got a promotion at work and spent more time out of the house, and when Hermione made decisions without me, I got angry. She always yelled that I was never at home to make the decisions. Our fights used to upset Rose and Hugo... and so... one day, Rosie came up to me and asked me why I always made her mummy cry. It broke my heart.”  
  
“And that was it?” Scorpius was much closer than he had been before. Ron jumped slightly as a warm hand landed on my shoulder.  
“I didn't decide to,” Ron murmured. “It just...”  
“Happened,” Scorpius finished for him.  
  
They stood in silence and Ron's face coloured with embarrassment.  
  
“I didn't like it when they cried when we shouted,” Ron whispered, bowing his head. “I didn't want them to be unhappy.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Scorpius jerked awake, blinking at the dimness of the room. He turned his head and saw that the only source of light came from the last of the fire, where the flames were barely managing to flicker. A light snore came from his right and he saw that Ron had fallen asleep in the armchair.  
  
A thick throw covered his body, and on shifting Scorpius could feel that his shoes and belt had been removed. The belt was coiled neatly on the coffee table, and the shoes sat below. Licking his lips, which he found dry, Scorpius pushed himself properly to sitting and tried to squint for the clock. It read three in the morning. His shift at the hospital was due to start at five-thirty.  
  
 _Lucky you woke up when you did, you would have missed it..._  
  
Giving in to his tired yawn, Scorpius dropped his feet to the floor and shivered as cool air crept in beneath the covering Ron had graciously draped over him. He pulled it with him as he got to his feet, groaning as they took his slight weight -it felt as though he had achieved no rest at all. He didn't remember falling asleep; all he remembered was a never-ending flow of tears from Ron's blue eyes as a barrier had broken with his confession.  
  
 _It makes so much sense._  
  
Scorpius had never seen a case such as Ron's before. His mind was swimming with the possibilities. His first thought had been attachment disorder -but Ron didn't exactly fit the cut for it. Scorpius knew that the Weasleys were a large and loving family; they looked after their own. It made no sense for Ron to have formed an unhealthy attachment to his wife because he hadn't received enough love as a child.  
  
 _Though... there's the possibility of latching on to one person because the love came from so many angles as a child, being told different things to do... wanting a clear set of instructions..._  
  
Scorpius' eyes fell upon the sleeping man and stared at him. Ron was still handsome approaching fifty. His hair was longer than usual, and his skin was pale. Scorpius idly wondered when the last time the man had been outside had been,  
  
The clock on the mantelpiece let out a chime, and Ron snorted in his sleep, blearily opening his eyes, which immediately closed. They flicked back open when he realised that Scorpius was watching him.  
  
“Thanks for the blanket,” Scorpius croaked. “I really appreciate it.”  
“Why are you up? Go back to sleep.” Ron turned his face into the armchair, nuzzling it as one would a pillow.  
“I should go, I've got a shift starting in two hours...”  
“Stay, have breakfast,” Ron offered, though his voice was becoming wispy with deepening slumber.  
“No, I'll go.” Scorpius unwrapped himself and aired out the throw. It was warm with his body heat, and he stepped over to layer the thick blanket over Ron's own body. “Here, this should keep you right...”  
  
He tucked in the fabric along Ron's thighs and about his middle, pulling it so it covered halfway up his chest. It was a moment before he realised that the man's sapphire eyes were open again, and watching him.  
  
“Thank you,” Ron whispered, the heat of his breath brushing over Scorpius' chin and nose.  
“Nothing to be thankful for,” Scorpius assured him, and straightened up. “Rose would kill me if she knew I was leaving you to sleep on here.”  
“I'm fine,” Ron's lips curled into a sleepy smile.  
  
Scorpius watched him fall back to sleep, wondering how on earth he would find the right diagnosis to placate the man's children without hurting them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dreams That Cannot Be -Part II**  
  
Looking out of the window, Ron zipped up his coat and took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. He had run out of milk, and if he wanted more coffee to make up for the fact that sleep had apparently deserted him, he would have to go out and buy some to be able to stomach his caffeine.  
  
His fingers shook as he checked that his wand was in place for the fifth time since he'd placed it in the specially sewn pocket on the inside right of his coat. He turned and stared at himself at the mirror next to the coat rack. He had washed and shaved for the journey. He didn't want people to stare.  
  
Ron stood looking at himself, neither approving nor disapproving. He looked until he knew every line of his face, and every freckle. He had been looking for ten minutes when a paper was shoved through the letter box and he jumped, heart racing.  
  
 _You can do this. You're just going out for milk, for God's sake._  
  
Ron wondered what had changed. A few weeks before he had simply forced the coffee down his throat black rather than admit that he needed to leave the house. His morning thus far had been different. The idea of washing, dressing, and tasting fresh air had almost been appealing. He had briefly considered contacting one of his brothers to go with him, but the thought made him feel pathetic and weak.  
  
 _And in any case... they haven't owled in a while... they've all given up like you wanted them to..._  
  
His brothers' neglect didn't hurt him. He truly had desired their absence, the absence of those who tried to bring him back from the sorrow and the despair. They hadn't been able to help him.  
  
Something that morning had been different.  
  
Ron twisted the latch of the front door and cracked it open. Cool air hit his face, and it felt good. He swung it open all the way, and stepped outside. The corner shop was only three roads away. Ron closed the door and locked it behind him.  
  
 _I hope I turned everything off..._  
  
He looked back at the house as he reached the end of the pathway, fighting the urge to run back to the protective walls.  
  
 _Coffee..._  
  
He yawned, proving a point to himself that he needed to go out. There was a reason to go. He need not talk to anybody.  
  
***  
“Here you are, doll,” the woman behind the till smiled, handing him a carrier bag. Her accent was different, and Ron could tell that she wasn't from the area. “Nice day out finally, isn't it?”  
  
He nodded, forcing a smile onto his lips and turned away.  
  
“Wait!” her proclamation made him jump and Ron cringed, wondering what he had done wrong.  
“Your change.” She smiled, holding out a few silver coins to him in the tips of her fingers.  
  
Ron wordlessly held out his hand, palm up, and let her place the money there. She peered at him curiously, as if trying to read his mind. Perhaps his eyes were distant, Ron decided. Rose often said that his eyes were distant, as though he was far, far away.  
  
Most of the time, Ron was.  
  
He left the shop without another word to the kind woman who had served him; he didn't want to make a fool of himself. It had been a long time since he had spoken to a woman who was not his daughter, his sister or his mother. Family didn't count, for all their little idiosyncrasies and forgiveness.  
  
Ron walked along the pavement, the bag swinging back and forth in his hand, crashing into his leg every so often. He sped up, eager to return home. He had achieved his task and wanted it over as quickly as possible.  
  
A loud laugh up ahead caused his head to snap up and Ron tensed. A group of teenagers were sat on a low wall, who had not been there when he had passed to reach the shop. They were a sizeable crowd, mostly laughing, and Ron had to acknowledge, they mostly looked like thugs.  
  
Swallowing, Ron broadened his shoulders and prepared to walk past them.  
  
“Oi, weirdo, you do know it's not that cold, right? Knob.”  
  
His breath caught in his throat.  
  
“Ginger, can't you hear us?”  
  
His face began to flame and Ron kept on walking, gripping the handle of the carrier bag so hard that he thought it would snap, and he would lose the one thing he had gone out for in the first place. The boys shouted more after him, but with each step he managed to put distance between himself and the crowd, until he rounded the corner and stopped dead. He couldn't force his legs to move as shudders claimed him, causing nausea to roil in his belly. He couldn't stop what was coming as he bent double and retched, narrowly missing his shoes with the shower of vomit which landed on the pavement. A harder shiver rocked him and Ron's vision swam. His mouth sucked fruitlessly at the air, but it didn't seem to reach his lungs, and as blackness tinged at the edges of his vision, he gave his body up to the panic, not knowing what else to do.  
  
***  
“Jesus, look at this bloke's arms.”  
  
Ron could hear their voices as if they spoke above water that he was beneath.  
  
“Bit old to be a cutter, don't you think?”  
“He clearly is though, and look how thin... The paramedics said his blood pressure was all over the place. I think we should palm this one off on psych before he wakes up, Shelley.”  
  
The word 'psych' grabbed his attention. If they were using that word, it was unlikely that he was in a magical hospital, and the thought of being treated by Muggles frightened him. His panic must have shown physically, because the nearby women gasped, and began to make worried murmurs.  
  
“Look at his heart rate. Is he having a panic attack when he's unconscious?”  
“Sir, can you hear me?” someone asked, louder than they should have been.  
  
Ron tried to answer, but what came out was a groan.  
  
“Can you tell us your name so that we can try to locate your family?”  
  
The effort drained him. “Where's my wand?” he whispered.  
  
There was silence above him.  
  
“Definitely take him to psych,” a low mutter sounded from one of the nurses, and Ron could have cried.  
  
***  
“Please, don't... no more...” Ron begged, twisting in the bed, trying to escape the needle which was headed for his upper arm.  
  
All he had done was ask for his wand. When they had refused he had asked in a louder voice, and louder still when he was refused again. Every inch of him had trembled with confusion, which they appeared to interpret as rage.  
  
“Sir, please, let us medicate you or we'll be forced to use restraint.”  
“You don't have any right to keep me here,” Ron choked, clutching at straws.  
“You're here for your own safety,” the woman insisted, and Ron jerked his head back as her warm palm connected to his brow. The back of his skull thudded into the metal headboard of the bed.  
  
“Ow,” he whimpered, as his vision swum.  
  
A sharp stab caused pain in his arm, and Ron gasped. It felt barbaric, to feel the cool liquid trickling into his body. The odd potion they kept injecting into him made him sleepy, so dopey that he could barely speak and definitely not sleep -he just lay there disorientated.  
  
“There now.” The needle was removed and something swiped over the site of entry. “There. Calm down, sir.”  
  
Ron felt bile rising in his throat, but as the drugs took over, he didn't stay lucid long enough to note where the sick fell when it spewed from his lips.  
  
***  
“Who brought him here?”  
  
Ron thought he recognised the voice but couldn't place it.  
  
“He was admitted after he fainted in the street, and then we detained him under the provisions of the Mental Health Act.”  
“You had no right!” Another voice chimed in, female, high with distress.  
“It's the law, I'm afraid. Now please, let's just concentrate on trying to get your father well again, shall we? He's been in considerable distress since his arrival-”  
“Is that why you've doped him up to the eyeballs on this crap?”  
“Sir, please try and keep your voice down, you're on a ward-”  
“We're taking him home,” the male voice said flatly.  
“I'm afraid I can't permit him to leave the ward, he's under strict supervision on account of the harm he presents to himself and possibly others.”  
“My Dad wouldn't hurt a fly.”  
  
The word 'Dad' caught in Ron's mind and lit up, like a candle in a dark room.  
  
 _Hugo._  
  
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a muffled garble.  
  
“Dad? I'm here.”  
  
His hand was picked up, but it didn't feel like his own.  
  
“As soon as they leave us alone, we're taking you out of here,” his son whispered.  
“I have some forms that I need you to sign... I'll be back in a minute. Note that we do operate CCTV in this hospital.”  
“Of course,” Hugo's voice turned charming. “We understand.”  
  
Ron hoped that his children could pull off the apparition; he still thought of them as little babies, with plaits in Rose's hair and chocolate smeared around Hugo's mouth. Despite the fact that he had been there for years, it somehow felt as though he had missed their transitions into adulthood.  
  
“It's okay, Dad,” Hugo whispered close to his ear -his breath felt warm, just as it had when he was a shy toddler, hiding his face in Ron's hair. “We're going to take you to St. Mungo's now.”  
  
Ron couldn't speak for the new horror which coursed through him, feeling that his own son was leading him into a fate he had been avoiding since his wife's death.  
  
“Please don't,” he whispered, but knew his begging would fall on deaf ears.

* * *

  
  


* * *

  
  
“How did you know where he was?” Scorpius finally managed to drag his eyes away from Ron for long enough to glance up at Hugo.  
  
Cheeks that were a near-perfect copy of Ron's own flushed and Hugo looked down at his feet. “I've been worried for months so I... I charmed him with a tracking spell, see. I wanted to know that he was safe.”  
“That was a brilliant idea.” Scorpius leant back in his chair. “Without it, we might never have known until the Ministry got involved.”  
  
Hugo nodded silently and looked at his father's prostrate body. “They had him so drugged up, Scorpius... it was...”  
“Scary?” Scorpius asked quietly.  
“Fucking terrifying.” Hugo's face fell forward into his hands. “I've never seen him that way before and now... now he's somewhere that he hates, and I'm to blame.”  
“It's not blame. I've been telling him for weeks that coming here would help him deal with his problems.”  
“But I'm the man whose just had him all but committed. He's going to hate me, Scorpius!”  
  
There was nothing that Scorpius could say as Hugo jumped to his feet and barrelled from the room, shielding his eyes. The guilt had clearly overcome the nineteen-year-old, and Scorpius wasn't surprised.  
  
 _They all just need to stop feeling guilty and realise they're not the enemy to each other._  
  
He turned his attention back to Ron on the bed and covered a large, cool hand with his own. Scorpius squeezed it gently and checked the clock: he had ten minutes before he was due back on the wards. He remained seated, however, gently holding Ron's hand and looking over him for signs of distress. He'd sneaked a look at the charts and seen that Ron had mostly slept since his admission, which wasn't surprising. Long red eyelashes fluttered and a soft moan slipped from between cracked lips.  
  
“Ron, can you hear me?” Scorpius leant forward, watching the wizard blink without opening his eyes. “Don't panic, you're safe now... away from the Muggles...”  
  
A shiver passed down his spine thinking of the sedatives the Muggles must have used to keep Ron under until Hugo rescued him. Only when he followed the messy line of it did Scorpius realise why Ron was blinking so much -his fringe was catching in his eyelashes. Without thinking, he reached forward and swept back the auburn hair, curving his fingers over the top of Ron's skull.  
  
“Mm, nice...” Ron breathed, shifting the bed and rolling his hips. “'Gain.”  
  
Scorpius froze with his hand caressing his ex-boyfriend's father's head. Wincing, he considered pulling away, but was frightened of distressing Ron.  
  
“'Gain,” Ron whispered more insistently, a slight flicker of irritation passing through his sleep-slackened expression.  
  
Scorpius didn't know what made him oblige, but he did, removing his hand completely and stroking all over again. Ron happily moaned and turned into his hand.  
  
 _It's just the touch..._ Scorpius told himself immediately. _He misses touch... intimate touch..._  
  
Pity welled up in Scorpius as though he were a sponge soaking up water. He drank it from everywhere, in the empty air of the room, the slow, drugged state of Ron's body, and the sweet warmth beneath his palm. His own heart thudding, however, he couldn't help sliding his hand down so that it cupped Ron's cheek and jawbone, which was clean shaven. He hadn't seen it that way for weeks. He advised Rose and Hugo to remove razors and their blades away from their father, as if not to tempt him. He had grown quite an impressive beard in his seclusion, but the skin was smooth and well moisturised as Scorpius held it.  
  
“I'll be back later,” he assured, though he wasn't sure if Ron heard him or not.  
  


* * *

  
  
Ron blinked at the wall and didn't offer up an answer to the question he had been asked three times in a row.  
  
“Why do you find it so hard to talk about what you've been through?” the female Healer asked him softly. “There's nothing wrong with your feelings, Ron.”  
  
He answered her with silence and tugged the blanket higher up his chest. The only reason he looked forward to his 'therapy' was that he got to leave his room for it. He was allowed to go for walks when his family and friends visited, but otherwise he kept to the four walls of his hospital room. The counselling rooms were a good walk away from the mental health wards, and it always gave him time to think.  
  
Ron couldn't think in the actual room, however. They smothered him, although they clearly tried not to. Their questions stung and made him ashamed, rendering his mouth dry and causing his fingers to shake.  
  
“Would you like to stop for a while?” his Healer asked. “Have a cup of tea and a bit of cake and then we'll carry on?”  
“No thank you,” Ron shook his head politely. “I'm not hungry.”  
  
“Are you really not hungry, or are you punishing yourself?”  
“Please...” Ron bit into his lower lip and looked away. “Stop.”  
“One day, you'll want to talk,” she said softly. “And I think you would talk... if you had a male Healer.”  
“I'm not sexist,” Ron said crossly, thinking how angry Hermione would have been with him for even the suggestion. “My wife was a wonderful woman... so strong... and I loved that.”  
“Why did you love her strength?”  
“Because she kept me honest,” Ron smiled sadly at the floor. “And she gave birth to my children. She had a brilliant job which she loved, she was so bloody clever... cleverer than me.”  
  
 _Not clever enough to avoid getting killed though._ Ron swallowed awkwardly at the angry thought which drifted across his mind.  
  
They had happened before, but since he had awoken in the place he feared the most, they had become more frequent. They crept up, tapped him on the shoulder and then streaked off through the window, leaving him confused and hurting, wondering why he had begun to resent the woman he loved.  
  
“But why did her strength appeal to you?” The healer crossed one of her legs over the other; Ron followed the long line of it through her robes.  
  
 _Always been a leg man._  
  
“My Aunt once said Hermione had skinny ankles,” he breathed, keeping his eyes on the woman's leg. “And she completely ignored her. She used to bitch all the time because she was Muggleborn... wanted me to marry a pureblood.”  
“And did that make you angry?”  
“Yeah.” Ron shrugged. “Because I was a person, and it was my right to chose who I fell in love with.”  
“It was,” she agreed with a smile. “And why did you choose Hermione, if you don't mind me asking?”  
“Since the day I met her, she pissed me off.” Ron chewed on the inside of his cheek as he considered what to say. “Self-important, bossy little cow even though she had to hurt her neck to look up at me.”  
“When did you fall in love?”  
“Somewhere in between a troll and a Yule Ball.” Ron shrugged.  
“When you were married, who made the decisions?”  
“Hermione,” Ron answered automatically.  
“Why?”  
  
Ron finally lifted his eyes to look at the healer: she was pretty, with long black hair which tumbled around her head. Her glasses were young and fashionable, just like her robes. She was younger than him.  
  
“She just did.” Ron felt his barriers come down, and he looked down at his thighs.  
“Well, I think that's enough for today.” The healer jotted something down on her parchment. “Why don't you go back to your room and get some rest, hmm?”  
“All I do is rest,” Ron muttered, easing out of his chair. “When can I go home?”  
“We're discussing it, I promise.”  
“With who?” Ron asked bluntly, swinging open the door. “Because it's not bloody me, is it?”  
“We'll have you home soon,” the healer promised with a sad smile. “You need to trust me, Ron. Or I'll never be able to help you.”  
  
Ron shuddered in response and turned into the corridor.  
  
  
  
By the time he made it back to the tiny, private little room the staff had awarded him due to his Auror status and past heroics, Ron was shattered. His limbs were as heavy as his mind, and his vision was blurred. He pushed open the door and looked at his bed, desperate to fall in it, only to find that there was somebody sitting on it.  
  
“Charlie?” He blinked twice to check that he was seeing correctly. There was no logical way that his brother should have been sitting on his bed, because his brother should have been in Romania, living with his dragons and the man he had been purposefully not marrying for twenty-five years.  
“They said you were in an appointment, so I... I wanted to wait. Haven't been home yet,” Charlie gestured to the stuffed rucksack propped up against the wall. “Wanted to come here first.”  
  
Ron was frozen in the open doorway, unsure of what to do. When he had been at home, locked in his house, he had been able to refuse his family and friends entry. Charlie had invaded his space at the hospital and there was nothing he could do about it because the wizard had travelled hundreds of miles to see him. Somewhere deep inside his numb body, Ron realised that the notion touched him.  
  
“What're you doing here?” he croaked.  
“I heard my baby brother was going through a really shit time.” Charlie eased up off the bed.  
  
Despite the fact that he was over fifty, Charlie was still immense. There was somewhat more podge around his stomach, and possibly some of the muscles had grown softer, but he was still the same happy bundle of energy, and as Ron found out when strong arms went around his torso, his hugs were still as perfect as when Ron had been five and Charlie had been thirteen. Warm spice and polishing crème swept over Ron and suddenly, he actually felt all of those five years old once again.  
  
“Want me to kidnap you?” Charlie muttered into his ear. “Because I will, you know.”  
“I know you would.” Ron managed half a grin and pulled away, still desperate to get to his bed.  
  
Charlie took the hint and stepped away, guiding him to the mattress as if he hadn't lain in it for a week and a half. He even tucked him in.  
  
“Haven't done this in a while,” Charlie had a small grin on his face. “Want me to sing? You always liked it when I sang. Or read you a story.”  
“Char...” Ron said tiredly, falling back on his pillows.  
“I know,” Charlie's voice turned sober, and he sat down, fixing Ron with a pained gaze. “I know.”  
“I've got to sleep,” Ron breathed. “I'm sorry.”  
“I'll be here when you wake up,” Charlie kicked his legs up and crossed his ankles on the edge of his bed. “I've got leave for two weeks and Caerwyn's going to come over for next week... so... I'll be here.”  
  
Ron closed his eyes, unsure of whether the thought of yet another brother to look after him, and another partner to pity him, was what he needed at that moment.  
  


* * *

  
  
Scorpius was starving. He had been on the wards all day long and had only managed to poke his head in on Ron twice throughout the course of it. There had simply been one drama after another, from projectile vomiting to a fitting child who kept levitating as she calmed down. He felt he deserved the large glass of wine he had ordered.  
  
“My Dad's been asking for you,” Hugo said quietly, breaking apart a roll from the complimentary bread basket. “A lot...”  
“Oh?” Scorpius reached for his own roll. “How's he doing?”  
“You know full bloody well how he's doing.” Hugo stared. “You go to see him every day. He told me.”  
“Well I work there... and I think it's good for him to see a friendly face... but if you don't agree, then I'll stay out of your business, Hugo.”  
  
The redhead stared at him and Scorpius' spine stiffened.  
  
“Have you turned on your mother's charm?” Hugo asked quietly, looking about them to check for eavesdroppers. “On my Dad? He's old enough to be _your_ dad, Scorpius! They were at fucking school together.”  
“Hang on, what're-”  
“He's attached to you,” Hugo emphasised each word. “He gets this look in his eyes when you're mentioned. I can't explain it.”  
“Well, I think... look. How much have the Healers told you about your dad's condition?”  
“Depression, separation anxiety, hefty dose of grief... nothing I couldn't have guessed myself, and did do, months ago. Rose too.”  
“Well... I think there's something else,” Scorpius looked down at the roll untouched in his hand. “I think that your mum and dad might have had... control issues, in their relationship.”  
“Eh?” Hugo blinked.  
  
Chucking the roll back in the basket, Scorpius dragged one hand back through his hair. “I think that your dad was dependent on your mum for control. I think she made all the decisions, and judged his.”  
“So what does that mean?”  
“He's lost without her. How would you feel, if the woman who had picked out your socks, chosen your meals, and your emotions for every day of your adult life was suddenly gone?”  
“My mum was lovely.” Hugo was suddenly ashen faced. “How can you-?”  
“I'm just piecing it together from what he's told me.” Scorpius held his hands up defensively. “And from the research I'm doing, I think it's-”  
“My Mum and Dad were happily married,” Hugo jumped to his feet, face reddening with his anger. “And don't you dare tell me they weren't. You didn't live with them, they didn't bring you up.”  
“I'm not pretending that they did-”  
“And you know what else?” Hugo snarled. “Don't fuck my dad. You'll only fuck him up more. You're more like your own dad than you want to believe. You _hurt_ people. Stay away him. He's too broken for you.”  
  
They stared at each other for a split second before Hugo stormed past the table, leaving Scorpius alone with the bread basket, one massacred roll and two glasses of wine. Other diners stared at him; some whispered behind their hands. The talking didn't bother Scorpius -as a Malfoy, he was used to being discussed behind his back and sometimes even in front of his own face. His family were disgraced war veterans from the wrong side; he had grown up to whispers, filthy looks, and once, being spat on in Diagon Alley.  
  
He had only been a baby then.  
  
Standing up, Scorpius cast a galleon and a few sickles down on the table to pay for the bread and the wine, and turned on his heel. Eyes followed him as he departed the restaurant, all the way out to the cobbles outside.  
  
 _He just had to do that here... the centre of the Wizarding world's best fucking social quarter._  
  
Burying his hands in his pockets, Scorpius began to walk. He could only think of what Hugo had said to him. The shame of his sexual habits being discussed in public hurt far less than the insinuation that he purposefully hurt people, and that he had done that to Hugo, and that he would further do it to Ron. An odd protectiveness had crept in him where the elder Weasley was concerned. He not only felt it was his duty to visit during his working day, but he _wanted_ to. Ron had become something to him when he wasn't looking, and he dearly cared for the man's welfare.  
  
 _Like you still care about Hugo's._  
  
Scowling, Scorpius entered The Leaky Cauldron from the back entrance and wove his hips around the tables which were full, celebrating the end of a working week. He kept going until he was under the railway bridge outside the pub and heading off into Muggle London.  
  
Scorpius liked the city. He liked the anonymity it offered, the multitude of dark corners which had been a sanctuary when he had started to experiment with his sexuality at eighteen. The Muggles were oblivious to the spells he could use to protect himself and as such he had more fun with them, pretending to be risky when, all the time, he was safe.  
  
 _Did you hurt them when you left?_  
  
Scorpius knew he was attractive. He had longer blond hair than his father, and more attractive eyes. He had his mother's chin, without the Malfoy point. His body was lithe, dancing the fine line between toned and skinny, but his partners seemed to like it.  
  
 _That and the length of your cock._  
  
His mood soured, Scorpius bowed his head, preparing to walk with his thoughts until he could no longer bear them, and his feet ached.  
  
***  
“Are you coming in, or what?”  
  
Scorpius blinked back into focus and stared at the welcome witch mannequin which served as the visitor entrance guardian to the hospital. It didn't surprise him in the slightest that he had ended up there. The tendons in his feet were sore and his calf muscles were tight. He was supposed to be on his weekend off, his forty-eight hours of freedom from the building in which he tended the sick all day.  
  
At half past eleven at night, he stood outside, shivering in the cold, wondering why the old walls looked like home.  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbled to the mannequin, and she winked at him.  
  
Scorpius stepped up to the glass and passed through it, closing his eyes for the transition to the inside of the building. The waiting room was surprisingly empty for a Friday night; normally it was full of witches and wizards who attempted foolish magic whilst inebriated. It was good entertainment, the staff found, if they were awake enough to enjoy it.  
  
“What're you doing here?” The witch on reception frowned at him.  
“Couldn't sleep,” Scorpius lied. “Might as well put the insomnia to good use, eh?”  
“You're mad, go home and go to bed.” The witch flipped open a glossy magazine and started to read.  
  
After that, Scorpius found he could slip through the corridors of the hospital unnoticed. A few of the portraits recognised him and gave him polite nods and smiles, but he was dressed in Muggle clothing and the amount of lit candles in the halls had been reduced to give off a sleepy night time air. He could never stay awake during his night shifts. Climbing the stairs towards the mental health wards, Scorpius stifled a yawn and momentarily agreed with the witch on reception -he was mad.  
  
Most men his age were out drinking, or if they weren't, they were in bed with their partners, fucking themselves raw. He was heading into work, tired and jaded, hurt by somebody who he thought could never hurt him. Scorpius caught sight of Ron's door as soon as he stepped onto the ward and took an instinctive step towards it. Hugo's warning came back to him clearly and he stopped, glad he was still in the shadows so that the MediWitch on duty couldn't see him.  
  
 _He's probably asleep. He won't need you now. There's no need to check on a sleeping man._  
  
Trying to repeat the fact to himself, Scorpius suddenly found himself without a reason to be in the hospital at all. He hadn't known as his feet had carried him there, but the whole reason for his visit had been the redhead in room fourteen of the suicide watch ward.  
  
 _So see him, and go home again._  
  
He made it to the door before he questioned himself again. His fingers actually closed around the door handle, and he looked at the little number plate, with the written nameplate for Ron beneath it. They bent without his instruction, twisting the knob and opening the wood with a slight creak. It surprised him that the candles were lit.  
  
“Ron?” he whispered, looking at the bed.  
  
Ron was sat there, completely awake. Scorpius' shock doubled at seeing the determination on Ron's face and the knife in his hands. He closed the door quickly.  
  
“Ron?” he tried again, approaching quietly, trying not to startle the wizard.  
“Hello Scorpius.”  
  
His voice sounded clearer than Scorpius had heard it in weeks.  
  
“Where did you get that?”  
“I transfigured it.” Ron shrugged. “From my slipper.”  
“But your magic is muted here.” Scorpius frowned. “And your wand-”  
“I don't need my wand.” Ron shrugged. “And I think I broke the spells. I managed to open the window, too.”  
  
Scorpius only realised at that point that there was a cool breeze playing over his cheeks, which were hot from his climb through the hospital.  
  
“How?”  
“Good magic.” Ron said, turning the knife over in his hands.  
“You've always been very good at magic,” Scorpius offered, edging closer.  
“Not when I was younger, I was shit.” Ron smiled wryly, looking up at Scorpius. “Why are you here?”  
“I wanted to see you.”  
“Why?” Ron frowned.  
“I don't know.” Scorpius shook his head.  
  
“Well, you can leave now,” Ron said firmly. “I'm going to do something, and I don't want you to see it.”  
  
Scorpius' stomach turned; it was almost as if he was a small child again, being asked to leave the room whilst his parents argued over something. Ron was talking about something far more serious, and yet the anger was still the same.  
  
“I'm not going anywhere,” Scorpius said defiantly.  
“You want to watch? Is that why you work here, you get off on seeing people hurt themselves?” Ron's top lip twisted into a sneer.  
“You know that's not true.”  
  
Ron nodded and looked down in between his legs.  
  
“Look at me,” Scorpius commanded, hoping that inserting some steel into his tone might force Ron to react. If the man liked control and power, then perhaps he would be persuaded to discard the knife with the same. Unfortunately, he was disappointed.  
  
“I want to talk to you,” Scorpius tried again. “I've got something I need to tell you.”  
“You don't.” Ron shook his head.  
  
Frustrated, Scorpius knelt down in front of him and peered up into Ron's eyes. They were red rimmed and damp, but nothing had fallen yet to his face. Scorpius wondered if perhaps he had missed that particular outpouring.  
  
“I want to die,” Ron said simply. “That's all I want. Can't you let me have what I want?”  
“Please don't.” Scorpius reached and placed his hand on Ron's knee. “Ron, don't. You have a family that loves you, children that adore you...”  
“I'm nothing but trouble to them,” Ron laughed. “I've gone mad... they've lost their mother and for their own good they should lose me.”  
“No, losing you would... would hurt them,” Scorpius stumbled over his words.  
  
Training to be a psychiatric healer was one thing -but physically talking a man down from suicide was a different experience completely. His insides were squirming, terrified that he would fail, knowing that Hugo, at the very least, would blame him exclusively.  
  
“Hermione wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to be unhappy.”  
“This isn't because I'm _unhappy_ ,” Ron spat, his face screwing up with emotion. “It's because I'm fucking ashamed! Look at me!”  
  
His voice rose and Scorpius winced.  
  
“Look at me!” Ron bellowed directly into his face. “I'm a fucking wreck and I've let it happen, I've ruined my own life. How can I live with that? Live with knowing what I've put my family through?”  
“Ron, look, you've not-”  
“I'm so weak,” Ron choked.  
“You're the strongest man I know,” Scorpius said simply, kneeling up and grasping hard at Ron's thighs.  
  
Scorpius didn't have time to be relieved when he heard the knife clatter to the floor because Ron threw his arms up, wrapping them tightly around Scorpius' neck. He too slid off the bed and landed in a puddle at Scorpius' knees. His upper body weight slumped forward and Scorpius struggled to hold them both up. He landed face-first in clean scented red hair, which crept into his mouth and choked him. Ron's face was pressed hard into his throat, suddenly wet.  
  
It wasn't a conscious thought as Scorpius pressed his lips to the man's head, peppering it with what he hoped were calming kisses. He stroked his back and rocked him from side to side. Ron lifted his head slightly and Scorpius was able to kiss bare flesh, touching the freckled brow and temples lightly with his lips, finding his way to damp cheeks and a long nose.  
  
Carried away with comforting, Scorpius finally opened his eyes and saw that Ron was looking back at him, afraid.  
  
“I'm sorry,” Scorpius breathed. “I'm sorry.”  
“Should that feel good?” Ron whispered. “Should it?”  
“I don't... I don't think that I should be... I'm sorry.” Scorpius tried to scoot back on the floor, willing the door to remain shut.  
  
“Don't,” Ron cried fiercely, reaching forward and grabbing the front of Scorpius' jacket with both hands in fists. “Don't leave me. Please. Don't leave me alone. I'll do it if you leave me alone. I want to die and you're the only person who asks me not to.”  
“What?” Scorpius blinked. “Rose and Hugo-”  
“Have never told me not to,” Ron tempered shakily. “We've never talked about it... I'm their shameful secret. But you, you talk to me, and I'm not a lunatic, I'm a person. If you leave, I'm dead.”  
“You're attaching to me,” Scorpius whispered.  
  
 _I won't be your second Hermione._  
  
Scorpius stared into Ron's eyes with fear as the man lifted his chin, and put their lips together. The kiss tasted of desperation and stale water. Sinking into the hard floor, Scorpius gave in with very little persuasion, unable to resist the call of warm touch, and warmer lips on his own.  
  


* * *

  
  
“I'm not a child,” Ron muttered beneath his breath, as Rose leant across the table and tried to wipe something off his chin. “I can wipe my own mouth.”  
“Well do it then,” she grinned at him, returning to her own food.  
  
His children sat opposite him, shooting him nervous glances every so often and trying to keep the conversation cheerful. Ron only spoke to them when they directly asked him a question.  
  
“So... d'you think you're ready to come home?” Rose asked, swallowing her mouthful of roast chicken.  
“I've been ready to come home for days,” Ron said pointedly.  
  
He had been lying in bed wanting to know why they weren't releasing him. One of the Healers had commented that his enthusiasm for getting out was the most enthusiasm Ron seemed to have about anything, and he knew it was a fair point. He simply couldn't stand the sight of the four walls of his room any longer.  
  
“But they won't let me out.” He dropped his fork. He had barely touched the Sunday lunch his daughter had slaved over, but he wasn't hungry. “They said the home visit is to see how I'd cope being out... I think they just wanted a break from me.”  
“Well, I don't blame them,” Hugo snorted, looking up over his plate. “Cantankerous old git.”  
“Watch who you're calling old.” Ron narrowed his eyes.  
  
It could have been a perfect picture of domestic family life, but the empty seat next to him screamed like a banshee. He couldn't ignore it, or the fact that his wife's perfect, petite bottom wasn't perched on it, or that her hand wasn't resting lovingly on his thigh beneath the table.  
  
“Eat up, Dad.” Rose gestured to his plate. “Or it'll go cold.”  
  
For his daughter, Ron picked up his fork and speared a potato. He was known for adoring food, for every mouthful bringing him pleasure and being able to put away ridiculously large reserves of fuel. The potato could have tasted like ash for all he knew.  
  
“Mm,” he lied, forcing his throat muscles to swallow. “Where's Scorpius? I thought you invited him?”  
“He had to work.” Hugo shrugged.  
“He's always at the hospital,” Rose sighed. “I don't know how he does it without getting depressed and...” she trailed off.  
“Mad like the people he treats?” Ron asked dully, dropping his fork.  
“No, Dad, I didn't mean it like that.”  
“Right.” Ron pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I'll be in the garden. I'll go back to the hospital early.”  
  
He let the back door bang shut behind him as he stepped out into sweet-smelling afternoon air.  
  
The sunlight made him wince as he stepped onto the grass. Hugo had decided to start up the mowing spells whilst Ron had been in hospital. The space was as beautiful as it had ever been, though, a green little haven in the suburbs of London. The roses were in bloom. Ron recalled an argument they'd had about those roses, and how she had asked his opinion and when he had given it, she'd made a face, chosen completely differently, and then accused him of not partaking in the planning choices when they got home.  
  
Throwing himself down on their ornate wooden garden bench, which had been a gift from Hermione's parents, Ron wrapped his arms around his torso and stared at the grass. He had clung to the idea of escaping the hospital for the afternoon, but he had been unable to endure it without making a drama.  
  
 _They should just lock you up in there and leave you to rot._  
  
A shiver passed through him, remembering a week previously when Scorpius had found him about to end everything, and pulled him back from the brink. Ron so dearly resented him he hadn't been able to look at him during the medical reports the next day.  
  
 _But that wasn't just because of what he stopped you from doing... it was what he made you feel, too._  
  
Ron chewed hard into his lip -the lip that he had pushed into Scorpius' mouth and allowed him to kiss. They had knelt together on the floor, exploring one another's mouths, Ron had even started to touch. Scorpius had been so warm and soft beneath his fingertips. For the first time in months, he'd felt his cock stir in his standard hospital issue pyjamas.  
  
 _“I don't want to hurt you...”_  
  
When Scorpius had pulled back, he had whispered those words, and Ron hadn't understood then and he still failed to see how Scorpius could have hurt him any more than he was already hurt. He ached inside constantly; the brief moments with the boy on the floor had soothed his innards and heated his blood, obliterating all other thought and feeling in his body.  
  
Scorpius had lifted him up, tucked him back into bed and extinguished the lights. The blond remained in his room all night.  
  
 _On the suicide watch._  
  
Ron sneered at the grass and tipped his head back to look at the sky. It was a hazy blue, with no noticeable clouds, but the sunlight wasn't pure. His jumper was too thick for the fine weather, but he had selected it to protect his children from the sight of his scars, even though they had seen them in the hospital, when he was under and had no control over what the staff dressed him in.  
  
 _Need to know basis._  
  
Ron had operated his life on such a basis for longer than he could remember. He only ever told his mother the basics, and granted his brothers only a tiny bit more. His wife had been given as much honesty as he could bear to give, but his children he had always protected. When the arguments between himself and Hermione had increased, they had made sure to keep them behind a closed door of sorts, if they could.  
  
 _Didn't always work though..._  
  
“Dad?” Hugo's voice called across the garden and Ron looked up to see him crossing the grass, holding two cups of tea. “Brought you this out.”  
“Thanks.” Ron didn't reach for it, but let his son set it down on the wooden slats of the bench. He couldn't stand the thought of being coddled with over a cup of tea.  
“Rose didn't mean that,” Hugo said bluntly.  
  
Ron had to smile at the way his boy was so very like he had been at that age. He had the strangest urge to grab him, shake him, and tell him never to lose his fire.  
  
“I'm fine,” he sighed finally. “I just felt myself getting out of control... so I came out here.”  
“Do you really think the hospital are going to keep you longer?”  
“I know they will.” Ron shrugged. “I've made no progress, Hugo.”  
“Yes you have,” Hugo said, extremely quietly.  
“I still think the same things.” Ron looked away.  
“But you're talking about it, Dad,” he pointed out. “You've never said this much to me about it before... that's new, and I think you're healing.”  
“Scorpius said the same thing the other day.”  
  
There was a slight huff of annoyed breath from his son's mouth, and Ron looked up.  
  
“What's wrong between you two?” Ron frowned.  
  
He had been aware, even at the depths of his depression, of his son's friendship with the blond. He'd always been suspicious that there might have been more, but Hugo was private, just like him.  
  
“Nothing.” Hugo took a deep swig of tea and glared at the grass.  
“Are you... have you...?” Ron struggled for the words, cursing beneath his breath as he wondered when he had become so inept at talking to a boy he had produced from his own earth. “Is there something... more between you than friendship?”  
  
“You really are healing.” Hugo got to his feet . “It's been ages since you've asked me about my private life.”  
“Hugo.” Ron dropped his eyes to his knees. “I know I've been a bad father since your mum died... but please, don't rub it in my face at the minute.”  
“I didn't mean it that way,” Hugo's tone became desperate. “Honestly, Dad -I just... I don't know how to answer you. Scorpius and I... we used to go out... but... I was too sad, after Mum. I wasn't in the mood for a relationship and that wasn't right for him... I ended it, but somehow I've always ended up painting him as the bad guy.”  
“Because you were hurt?” Ron looked up.  
“Too much,” Hugo's eyes closed.  
  
The expression of pain on his face seared straight to Ron's heart, curling around it.  
  
“Hugalugs.” He murmured a childhood nickname that his son _loathed_.  
“Don't call me that,” Hugo smiled.  
“I'll call you what I want.” Ron reached for his tea. “So what's wrong with Scorpius now?”  
“I'm jealous.” Hugo sat back down, much closer to Ron than he had before. “I'm jealous, Dad.”  
“You get that from me... I'm jealous of everything. Never been able to control it.”  
“He spends so much time with you. He looks in on you... and he's always researching. He wants to help you and the way he looks at you... “  
  
Ron's breath caught in his throat as he wondered if Hugo had guessed about the kiss that Scorpius had shared with him.  
  
“I think he's attracted to you,” Hugo mumbled. “He likes older men... and he likes... red hair...”  
  
Feeling nauseous, Ron offered nothing, knowing full well that his silence might incriminate him, but hoping that his silence of the past months would simply make it look like an awkward continuation. Hugo fell silent and sipped at his tea.  
  
“Do you want him back?” Ron asked hoarsely.  
“He wouldn't take me back.” Hugo shook his head. “And I'm not solely gay, Dad... I like girls too. There's sort of someone at the minute... she's really great so...”  
“But you can't bear to see Scorpius going after somebody else?” Ron guessed.  
“Bingo.”  
“You are so much like me, Hugo,” Ron said sadly, lifting his arm and placing it around his son's shoulders.  
  
The heavy weight of Hugo's head landed on his shoulder and Ron closed his eyes, feeling that perhaps his escape from the hospital had been worth it simply for the hug they shared, sitting on a bench in the middle of his wife's garden.


	3. Chapter 3

Scorpius closed his eyes and scrubbed harder at his teeth, losing himself at the beats of music which were shattering through his flat. The day had been rough and he'd found himself bogged down at work, and then suffering through an uncomfortable dinner with his parents. He was tired, every muscle of his back screaming with protest as he flung his body around to his horrendous taste in music, trying to release some tension.  
  
He spat viciously in the bathroom sink and peered at himself. Colour had risen in his cheeks and there was something deeper in his eyes.  
  
“You haven't been out for fucking ages,” he scolded himself in the mirror. “Hospital, home, that's all you fucking do.”  
  
Sighing, he rinsed his brush beneath the tap and flicked the bristles with his thumb before slotting it back in the holder. He'd showered, so his hair was damp and dark, clinging to his neck in the steamy bathroom. There was a smudge mark on the mirror where he had wiped it to see his reflection, though he wasn't satisfied by what he had seen. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his complexion was failing.  
  
 _Too much time bent over the books..._  
  
Trying to learn the theory as well as walking the wards at all hours of the day was taking its toll, though Scorpius recognised the fact that he wouldn't be half as tired if he didn't spend as much time in Ron's room. Since the night that he had found him holding the knife, Scorpius found it extremely hard to let go. He kept ducking in on his breaks and lunch hour, to share whatever cake or sweet treat he'd succumbed to from the canteen, simply to keep his blood sugar up.  
  
They read the newspaper together, or they sat in silence, each left to their own thoughts. Sometimes they talked about Ron's progress, and they talked about his hatred of his counselling sessions. It always left Scorpius feeling exactly the same way -longing to solve all of the man's problems, and to share another kiss.  
  
His face flamed as he thought of that morning, when he had woken up with a sticky crotch and just knew that he'd been dreaming of Ron, imaging being owned by his long body and being kissed by his lips. Shivering, Scorpius stepped out of the steamy bathroom and headed for his bedroom, looking forward to sinking into his mattress and being dead to the world in approximately five minutes. He threw spells over his shoulder to extinguish the candles, and cut off the music too.  
  
When the Floo dinged, he was determined to ignore it.  
  
“Scorp?” Hugo's voice rang through the flat. “You there? I know you are. Let me in.”  
  
Scorpius stopped, looking down at his toes sinking into the thick carpet his mother had insisted on replacing in his hallway. He shared a love/hate relationship with his flat. It was his own kingdom, but his parents had paid for it, and the furnishings within it, to get him through his training in comfortable surroundings. It was in a building set in the residential area accessed through Diagon Alley.  
  
Moaning at himself, he doubled back to the living room and jabbed his wand at the fireplace. Within seconds, Hugo had appeared there, stooped and coughing.  
  
“When are you going to learn to close your mouth when you use the bloody thing?” Scorpius grumbled, throwing himself on his sofa and sinking into it, glad he had put his pyjama bottoms on in the bathroom.  
“Shut up,” Hugo muttered, kicking his heels on the hearth and coming towards him.  
“Do you know what time it is?” Scorpius yawned.  
“Ten to one in the morning.”  
“Why aren't you at home?”  
“I haven't got a fucking home,” Hugo laughed somewhat desperately. “My parents don't live there any more... and Dad's sick pay from work is about to run out. I'm not going to be able to pay the water connection soon. I don't have a home.”  
“You have a home,” Scorpius frowned. “And you love it.”  
“I hate it!” Hugo declared, stripping off his cloak. “I hate everything. I hate Rose -she doesn't feel it like I do, living on her own. And I hate Mum for fucking dying. And I hate Dad for getting this escape -he's off the planet and he's so depressed but he doesn't know how lucky he is -he doesn't _feel!_ ”  
“Your father feels very much.” Scorpius stood up, knowing that Hugo was completely drunk from the looseness of his hand gestures and the slurring of his words. “He's in pain, Hugo.”  
“I'm in pain,” he hurled across the room. “Because of you. And now you want my fucking Dad-”  
“Whoa, wait, where've you got that from!?” Scorpius' heart began to hammer.  
  
“You were never that attentive to me when we went out,” Hugo said in an accusatory tone.  
“You wouldn't let me be,” Scorpius pointed out. “You pushed me away whenever I tried to help.”  
“You were analysing me, fucking psychologist.”  
  
Scorpius didn't bother to deny it; he analysed everybody, even himself, and especially his own parents.  
  
“Why are you helping my Dad so much?”  
“Because he needs help!” Scorpius threw his hands up.  
“Do you fancy him?”  
“He's your dad,” Scorpius thought quickly on his feet.  
“But do you fancy him? He looks like me... and he's older, more powerful... alone...”  
“Hugo, sit down.” Scorpius pointed firmly to his sofa. “And shut up.”  
  
To his utmost surprise, the redhead listened, and slumped back into the soft cushions without another word.  
  
“You asked me to help him.” Scorpius sat down next to Hugo. “You came to me for help and I'm giving you it.”  
“Would you stop if I asked?”  
  
Scorpius couldn't answer in the negative, but had no idea why. Hugo stared at him.  
  
“I knew it.”  
“Hugo-”  
“My dad isn't gay, so you're barking up the wrong tree,” he spat, marching to the front door.  
  
 _But he kissed me._  
  
“Leave my family alone,” Hugo tossed over his shoulder.  
“But you asked-”  
“I take it back!” Hugo bellowed in his direction. “I only ever wanted you to be close to me anyway.”  
  
Scorpius just stared.  
  
“But now you're close to him, I can see it.”  
“There's-”  
“If you can make him happy, have him.” Hugo's face crumbled with sudden grief -a sudden surrender amongst this anger. “I won't stand in your way.”  
  
The door slammed shut and Scorpius felt tiredness crash around him.  
  
 _And you don't know what you want, or what to do, or what to even think._  
  


* * *

  
  
Ron stared at his bag and wondered whether it was neat enough. He didn't have many clothes with him at the hospital, seeing as he had mainly stayed in his pyjamas through the duration. His toiletry bag was packed and ready, as were the few books and remaining sweets that his children and friends had bought him.  
  
In short, he wished that the Healers had been content to release him that evening, instead of making him spend another night there. He was sick of the sight of the walls of the room. He knew every crack and crevice of every brick. He was sick of watching the world through the tiny window, seeing the dancing pinpricks of light beneath him in the evening, whilst all he could see above was the dark sky.  
  
Sighing, Ron sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands in his lap. His nails were short, cut that way by the hospital staff, as if he might engage them as a weapon against himself, or even them. Whilst he had bemoaned their constant care, he wasn't sure how he would keep it up when he was left to his own devices. Rose had offered to move back in and look after for him for a time, sharing the burden with Hugo.  
  
It mortified Ron that he should be a burden to such young children.  
  
He had started to form a plan in his mind, though he didn't know how he would execute it and keep it a secret. Picking absent-mindedly at some dry skin at the corner of his thumbnail, Ron ran through it in his mind. When he got home, he would lay low for a few days, and try to acclimatise to being constantly around his family again. Hugo was very easy to live with, mostly, but their relationship had changed. In the meantime he would send an owl to the Wizarding estate agent, the one they had used to buy their first and only house, and ask him to seek out the type of property that Ron wanted.  
  
He wanted it in the middle of nowhere; no neighbours, no animals, no noise. He wanted to be alone. He wanted, in short, that should he wake up one morning and feel like ending his life, there would be nobody there to stop him, nobody to feel guilty. Ron wasn't fool enough to believe that his stint in the hospital had anywhere near healed him. Only his fear of disappointing those around him kept him from transfiguring another knife.  
  
Alone, in complete solitude, they wouldn't touch him, nor would they hold him back.  
  
That was what Ron truly wanted.  
  
He was startled from his reverie by a gentle knock on the door, which remained shut, clearly waiting for him to give his permission. Ron stared at the lonely room and immediately called out. The face that poked around the door caused him to stand up and a nervous smile to flare on his lips.  
  
“Scorpius? Bit late, isn't it?” Ron's eyes slid to the clock on the wall. It was gone nine in the evening.  
“Yeah... I... I know tonight's your last night, so... wanted to come by and say hello.”  
“You've just missed Harry.” Ron sat back down on his bed, tucking one leg up beneath him. “He was here most of the afternoon.”  
“Is he well?” Scorpius asked politely, crossing to the visitor's chair by his bed.  
“Yeah... we... we talked a bit.” Ron made a face, remembering the painful conversation.  
“Want to talk about it?” Scorpius offered.  
  
Ron remained silent and reached down to fiddle with the hem of his jeans. His feet were cold even though he had socks on. He stared at his foot, long and thin as it had always been. He had grown so used to ignoring his body in the depths of his depression that touching and seeing was almost like discovering himself all over again -sometimes he felt like a teenager, testing his muscles or purely discerning what _felt_ good when he rubbed it. The evening before, buried in the darkness of his room, with flaming cheeks and shaking fingers, he had touched himself sexually for the first time in half a year.  
  
At the end he had come, hard and fast, and promptly burst into tears. It only made him gladder that he had nobody to intimately love him, because nobody had seen his weakness.  
  
“No, I don't want to talk about it,” he said brokenly.  
  
He didn't want to tell a man young enough to be his son that he had moved his best friend to tears, and was unable to help stem the flow. All he had been was honest with Harry, something he hadn't been able to be for a very long time. Secrets had been locked up on his tongue and though he didn't want to release them, it was almost as if that afternoon they could linger within him no more. In a quiet voice he had told his best friend from the past everything.  
  
Including how he didn't feel that he had a best friend any more, and that was entirely his own fault. That was what had broken Harry.  
  
“Tell me about yourself,” Ron said wildly, looking up and locking onto Scorpius' relaxed frame in the chair. “Talk about anything.”  
“Are you alright?” Scorpius asked cautiously.  
“No, just talk,” Ron insisted, closing his eyes and falling back on the bed, balling up his fists.  
  
“I live by myself,” Scorpius started tentatively. “I live round the back of the Alley, in the residential district... it's nice but... I wish I lived somewhere else.”  
“Why?” Ron asked without opening his eyes.  
“Mum and Dad bought it for me, paid for the lot... I should be grateful but... it doesn't feel right.”  
“You're not like your parents,” Ron stated matter-of-factly.  
“I bloody hope not,” Scorpius snorted; Ron saw straight through the jolly tone to the insecurity behind.  
“You're much kinder than your dad ever was,” Ron offered. “He hates me.”  
“And he'd hate that I like you,” Scorpius put in. “He hates that I chose a career _helping_ people... that I haven't gone into property and trading artefacts like him, and Grandad...”  
“I remember searching your manor once,” Ron murmured. “You were just a baby then. The same age as Rose... your mum was there, watching us, afraid, and you were in her arms, all pink, watching us... you watched _me_ I think. You dropped your bear. I gave it back to you. You smiled at me.”  
  
Silence followed his story and it unnerved him. Ron peered over at Scorpius to find the boy staring back at him, slightly awed.  
  
“Why did you never mention that before?” Scorpius cleared his throat.  
“Didn't remember,” Ron shrugged. “It was a long time ago... a lot has happened since. My memory's not what it was.”  
“That explains a lot,” Scorpius said thoughtfully, reaching up to rub at his chin.  
“What does?”  
  
Scorpius blushed slightly. “When we're little we form attachments to people, through the simplest of gestures. You were kind to me, you gave me back something I loved. My grandmother was kind to me, she gave me kisses and cuddles. My father, on the other hand, took my bear away when I asked a question out of turn. I love my Nan to pieces. I don't get on with my dad. And I'm drawn to you, and I don't know why.”  
“I looked at you for about a minute, no more,” Ron dismissed.  
“It's all so much simpler when you're tiny,” Scorpius said, almost sadly, and leant back in his chair.  
  
Silence descended again and Ron licked thoughtfully at his lips. His own family had loved him intensely, even though for the most part he had failed to see that, especially in his adolescence. “I tried to love all of my family,” he frowned. “But I never really believed that they loved me back, I don't think.”  
“What about Hermione?” Scorpius' tone was questioning, but not threatening.  
  
For some reason, Ron had no qualms about answering him. “It took me a long time to believe she loved me, too. But after the war... I started to have bad nightmares that involved... my brother,” Ron unknowingly massaged his chest, where it still hurt to talk about Fred, even after the many years that had passed. “And I was really bad afterwards, mad crying, shaking... talking to myself... she stayed. Held me. Kissed me. I think then I finally believed that she loved me.”  
  
Scorpius was gazing at him with something akin to dawning comprehension.  
  
“You're doing it again.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Stop analysing me.”  
“Creature of habit,” Scorpius laughed, getting to his feet.  
  
The clear sound of his mirth broke through the tension between them.  
  
“Are you going home now?” Ron hoped he didn't sound too disappointed.  
“Not if you want company.” Scorpius smiled. “Have you had dinner yet?”  
“Couldn't face it, I ate three mouthfuls to keep them happy.”  
  
Ron didn't know when he had stopped dressing up the truth for the young blond in front of him. Scorpius started rummaging in his pockets until he found something.  
  
“Stay here,” he ordered.  
“Like I can go anywhere,” Ron answered grumpily.  
“I know, just teasing.” Scorpius winked. “I'm going to treat you to something to celebrate your last night in here. I know how much you hate it.”  
“Don't go to any-”  
  
Ron had been about to say trouble, but Scorpius was already half out of the door. He sighed, watched it close, and settled in to wait for the boy's return.  
  
***  
“Why did you do this?” Ron asked humbly, looking down at the paper wrappings in his lap.  
  
The door to his room was locked, from the inside. The smell in the air was of salt and vinegar wafting from the chips Scorpius had bought him, tempered by the cool breeze from the window, on which the wizard had lifted the usual protection charms.  
  
Even better, on his tiny bedside cabinet, stood a small bottle of ale. Ron savoured each and every mouthful of the food and the drink, amazed that Scorpius had thought to buy them for him.  
  
“Because I thought you deserved something nice.” Scorpius shrugged, trying to angle some fish onto the paltry plastic fork the chip shop had provided. “Are you enjoying it? Don't feel you have to eat it, I know your digestive system isn't used to this sort of stuff now...”  
“I'm loving it,” Ron promised, and was surprised that he meant it.  
  
Sucking the salt from his fingertips, Ron looked towards the open windows. “I know it's for safety... but I feel so much better for having that open. Less trapped.”  
“Is it just the air, or the fact you know it's open?” Scorpius asked interestedly.  
“Just the breeze,” Ron confirmed. “It's nice to feel it on your face... like being by the sea... it feels good.”  
“Do you like the sea?”  
“I always wanted to live by the sea.” Ron stabbed another chip. “But it wasn't practical with our jobs, and the kids... being so close to family... but it was my dream.”  
“What other dreams did you have, Ron?”  
  
Perhaps Scorpius didn't understand the depth of the question he had just asked, but Ron nearly choked on his food. He saw no way that he could answer such a query, when all of his dreams had died with his wife.  
  
“I dreamed of what everyone else dreams of,” Ron managed to grind out. “I dreamed of growing old with the woman I loved, and being happy. Now I can't do either.”  
“You don't know you'll never find happiness again.” Scorpius stared into his chips.  
“I do.” Ron shook his head. “Some things, you just know.”  
  
He saw Scorpius' shoulders tense and wondered what would come next.  
  
“I once thought I would never be happy again.” Scorpius didn't look up. “I believed that I would suffer because of the life my dad had lived before me, for the crimes he had committed. At Hogwarts, I used to lock myself up and just...”  
  
He trailed off, and Ron, completely entranced, felt a hint of annoyance. He wondered if he had made others feel like that when _he_ cut off abruptly from his feelings.  
  
“You know what, it's late,” Scorpius' voice was tight. “I should get going and you should get to bed. You've got a big day tomorrow.”  
  
His long legs had already unfolded from the bed and Ron struggled to follow and not spill his food everywhere. His heart thrummed rapidly in his chest, and it wasn't until Scorpius reached for the door handle that he realised why: _I don't want you to go._  
  
“Please stay,” Ron asked gruffly, setting down his food on the visitors' chair. “I'm sorry... I upset you.”  
“You didn't,” Scorpius tried assure him, but his distress was clear in his flushed cheeks. “I'm just... I need to go...”  
  
Ron had no idea what prompted him as he crossed the small space in between them and took hold of Scorpius' wrist. It was delicate and cool beneath his touch, and Scorpius came when he tugged on it. He stumbled close, so close that Ron caught the scent of his cologne, which was musky and manly, thick in his throat.  
  
“Don't go,” Ron begged again, sliding his other hand around Scorpius' hip, completely stunned by his own actions.  
“What are you doing?” Scorpius whispered fearfully, his eyes widening with each millimetre that Ron closed between them. They were chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip.  
“I don't know,” Ron breathed desperately. “I don't know, Scorpius.”  
  
Before either could speak again, they were kissing, softly pressing their closed lips together, eyelashes downcast as both tried to make sense of their actions. Scorpius lightly touched his waist, holding onto him as though he might break. Desperate for more passion, Ron pushed him back into the closed door and enjoyed the hard thud the boy's body made against the wood.  
  
“Oh gods, Ron...”  
  
Hearing his name so readily breathed made Ron shiver. He looked up and caught Scorpius' eye, finding more heat in the silver pools than he had ever imagined he could find.  
  
“You don't want this,” Scorpius choked, turning his chin away. “I don't want to take advantage...”  
“You're not.” Ron nosed against him.  
“You don't know what you want,” the blond tried again.  
“And do you, Scorpius?”  
  
Ron hadn't heard the gravelly, sensual depth to his tone since Hermione had been alive. It made him aware of the blood pumping through his veins, and he could feel heat prickling over his flesh.  
  
Only then did Ron realise just how numb he had become, to everything.  
  
“I want to feel you,” he breathed, pushing his fingers up beneath Scorpius' Muggle jumper, finding the smooth softness of his belly instantly. “You're so pale...”  
“So are you,” Scorpius pointed out with a smile.  
“But you're beautiful,” Ron murmured into his ear, “and I'm just an old man.”  
  
The words sank into his psyche; they brought ice to dash his new-found fire. Ron froze, his fingertips molesting the man in his arms, and felt ashamed.  
  
“Ron?”  
“I'm sorry, I should never have... don't know what I was thinking... you don't...”  
  
He pulled away, tucking his shaking fingers beneath his armpits, he headed back to the bed and sat down upon it, looking at his knees. Scorpius remained silent, though his laboured breath panted through the room for a while, until he recovered.  
  
“I'm sorry,” the blond whispered.  
  
Ron chewed hard on his cheek as soft lips pressed into his hair, and then the door swinging shut heralded his company's exit.  
  
“Fuck,” Ron croaked, as his fingers clenched into fists, his nails digging painfully into the flesh of his palms.  
  
Once more he wished that he had a more powerful weapon than his nails with which to hurt himself. A breeze fluttered through the window which, in his upset, Scorpius had forgotten to spell shut again. Ron was on his feet in an instant, heading for it. He knelt up on the high windowsill, peering through the tiny panes.  
  
 _I'll never fit through that._  
  
Bemoaning his size and lack of a rope, Ron turned and looked wildly around the room. His eyes alighted on the bottle, half-drunk on the beside cabinet. One smash against the wall and he might have ten separate weapons, each sharp, each deadly -each exactly what he needed. Moving directly for it, ignoring what was in his path, Ron's leg nudged the chair on which he had set his food. It toppled off the edge, landing with a loud squelch on the floor and snatched his attention as the blue plastic fork skidded beneath his bed.  
  
 _Death by plastic fork. That could be interesting._  
  
Laughter suddenly slammed into Ron's stomach so hard that he doubled up, staring at the mess on the floor as his mirth bubbled inside of him.  
  
“I'm so fucking...” he heaved at the air, his sides beginning to ache as he laughed. “Pathetic.”  
  
Ignoring the bottle, Ron sank down on his bed and laid on his back, still laughing, staring up at the ceiling as he tried in vain to stop the giggles. His mind began to tick, wondering if he had finally gone insane, the thought of which only made him laugh harder, and harder, until he began to feel nauseous. Clutching his belly, Ron felt his breath catch in his throat. For a split second, the world stopped. Ron did not breathe, nor did he make a sound, and then the mirth turned to pain, and his laughs became sobs, which made his entire frame tremble, and his face wet.  
  
The force which had claimed him seemed unstoppable, trapping him in its clutches, squeezing the sobs and wails out of his body until he felt weak. He lay on the bed shivering, staring at the bag he had so neatly packed in preparation of leaving the hospital. Terrified, he acknowledged what he had been ignoring for days – that leaving meant living again, and breathing for himself.  
  


* * *

  
  
Scorpius didn't know why he was there. Rose had invited him to the small party that Molly Weasley was throwing for the sheer fact of having all her children under one roof again. Rose had insisted that as a family friend, and for helping her dad so much, he would be welcome. However welcome he was, though, Scorpius sat quietly in the darkest corner he could find, trying to blend into the scenery. His eyes were only for Ron, and anybody watching him would have noticed his obvious attention. Hugo would have noticed the _affection_.  
  
Ron himself was sat in an arm chair, pretending to listen to the conversation around him. Scorpius understood the blank look on his face -the party was too much for him; too many people, too many voices for a man with attachment disorder tendencies: he didn't know where to turn first. Scorpius watched as the gathering slowly tore Ron apart, picking at his seams and undoing him. The tension increased by the minute on his pale, sorrowful face.  
  
“Drink, Scorpius?” Rose offered. “I'm going for one myself.”  
“I'm fine, thanks.” He shook his head. “Actually... I should be heading off, I think. I don't want to intrude and...”  
“Don't talk crap,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “You're wanted here. And not just by me.”  
  
She looked purposefully over her shoulder at her father, who didn't seem to notice her gaze upon him.  
  
“He asks after you a lot.”  
  
Scorpius felt he could do nothing after their disastrous kiss but keep his distance. He had been present for Ron's final meeting with the Healers before his discharge from the hospital, and had visited once on Rose's request, but otherwise he had forced himself into a surprisingly painful separation from the redhead. The very real joy in Ron's eyes at seeing him there at the Burrow that afternoon had caused nausea to coil in Scorpius' stomach.  
  
“He wishes you were around more, I think he misses your friendship, you know,” Rose said sadly. “He barely talks to anybody else... but I know he talked to you.”  
“Work's been busy.” Scorpius felt horrendous for lying. “But I'll try and get round a bit more... maybe it'll perk him up.”  
“Maybe.” She smiled. “So, drink?”  
“One more.” Scorpius held out the tumbler, which had previously held firewhiskey with ice.  
“You'll rot your gut drinking this stuff.” Rose's nose crinkled with distaste.  
“You look like your mother,” Harry's voice cut through their conversation. “She always had that holier-than-thou attitude to drink... but on the night of her twenty-first, she got so drunk she couldn't see her own feet.”  
  
The room hushed with Harry's cheerful little anecdote, but it wasn't the words which shocked everybody into silence -it was the loud, snorting laugh that Ron let out when he heard it. He opened his mouth to comment, but as every single head in the room turned towards him, his lips closed, and his skin paled, and Ron's eyes turned downcast.  
  
“Sorry, Ron, I didn't-”  
“No,” Ron said abruptly, and got to his feet, leaving the room.  
“Shit,” Harry breathed under his breath. “Sorry, everyone.”  
“It wasn't the mention of Hermione that hurt him,” Scorpius blurted, and suddenly all the heads swivelled in his direction. He flushed under their scrutiny. “It was because you made a big thing of his normality.”  
  
Nobody said anything and Scorpius wished the floor would open and swallow him whole.  
  
“Ron needs normality,” Scorpius swallowed. “He needs to laugh and not have you all stare at him like the ghost of Merlin's just strolled through your living room. He needs to be, alright?”  
“Okay,” Harry said awkwardly. “Okay.”  
“I think that maybe you should... I have some information at the hospital, for people caring for someone with Ron's illness. If you want I could...”  
“That would be _great_.” One of Ron's brothers stood up, and though Scorpius couldn't remember his name, the man shot him a warm smile with a look of gratitude.  
  
“I'm going now,” Scorpius said sheepishly. “I'll show myself out.”  
  
He picked his way through the assorted legs and playing children on the Weasley sitting room floor and stepped out into the relatively fresh air of the hallway. He found his way to the kitchen and saw that the back door was swinging on its hinges. The yard was blustery, with little drifts of dirt floating in the wind. The trees from the orchard rustled nearby and he couldn't help scanning them, wondering if Ron was there.  
  
“Scorpius.”   
  
He jumped as the voice actually came from behind him; Ron was leaning against the wall of the house, with his hands buried in his pockets. His face was pale but his eyes were bright with moisture.  
  
“There you are.” Scorpius stepped closer. “You laughed, Ron.”  
“Everyone's upset,” he mumbled.  
  
One thin-fingered hand reached up to rub irritably at Ron's eye; Scorpius couldn't help but catch it again on the way down. He pulled it close and kissed the back of Ron's knuckles, unable to stop himself. Ron's eyes widened and followed his every move.  
  
“It was beautiful,” Scorpius said sincerely. “I wish I could hear the sound more often. You've got such a warm laugh.”  
  
Ron opened his mouth and then closed it again, his cheeks bursting into colour.  
  
“I'm going,” Ron muttered suddenly, his eyes frantic. “I'm going, Scorpius.”  
“Going where?” he frowned. “Home? Want me to come with you? Have a chat about things?”  
  
 _Why do you give him everything, even when he doesn't ask?_  
  
“No, really going away. The kids don't know. I've been home for a week and I've managed to sort it already. I've bought a property somewhere that nobody can find me, so that I can be alone... and either heal, or sink.”  
“Which do you want?” Scorpius asked, frightened of the answer.  
“I want to be in peace,” Ron answered, avoiding the question.  
  
Or perhaps, Scorpius thought, as Ron leant forward and captured his lips again, the answer had actually been very truthful.  
  
“Will you trust me?” Scorpius' mouth worked without instruction. “To know where you are? To let me visit you?”  
“I don't think that-”  
“Please?” Scorpius begged. “I want to be...”  
“What?” Ron whispered.  
“I want to spend some time with you.” Scorpius closed his eyes.  
  
Another soft kiss pressed to his lips and he nearly moaned with pleasure.  
  
“I can't promise you anything,” Ron answered. “Do you understand that, Scorpius? I can't promise to heal. I can't promise to not wake up tomorrow morning and find that the longing to die has gone away. Do you want to have somebody who might throw you away?”  
“I'll take what I can get.”  
  
He finally looked at Ron and saw the man's expression torn by confusion and wonder.  
  
“Why?” the redhead asked finally.  
“Because you let me in,” Scorpius shivered in the wind. “And nobody in my life has ever let me in. Let me visit you?”  
  
Ron's single nod was a torch to his soul, Scorpius found, and when he threw his arms around the man's neck and clung onto him, he wondered which of them had found the most solace in their odd, untimely friendship.  
  
“Don't tell anyone?” Ron pleaded.  
“I won't,” Scorpius promised. “I promise.”  
  
“I trust you.”  
  
The soft whisper made Scorpius weaken at the knees.  
  
“I'm glad.”  
  
 _-fin-_


End file.
